Unending Winter
by Clorinda
Summary: A man slowly torn apart from inside by his housekeeper. They didn't hate each other at sight, slowly fall in love, face obstacles they overcame and lived happily ever after. They were their own obstacles like they always would be. SaitoxTokio.
1. Chapter 1

**Unending Winter**

**By** Clorinda

**Rated**: PG

**Category**: Drama/Romance

**Summary**: Saito Hajime thought life was a pitched battle of him against the world. This is the story of how he changed one strange Christmas night, and the woman who helped him through it. (SaitoxTokio)

**Semi-AU for bringing back Okita Souji from the dead**.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_Ten years before Kenshin and Kaoru's story starts_...

There was a fairly good reason why Okita Souji didn't like to visit Hajime's household on Mondays. The post-Revolution Saito was angry and brooded when he had time to kill. He worked as a policeman, and he didn't like it that he was simply roping up petty thieves.

Well acquainted with how far Hajime's love for his country had taken him, Okita did not blame him. However, he still stepped into the silent house on Monday evening, taking off his footwear as Hajime's housekeeper slid closed the _shoji_ behind him.

Okita Souji was a short man, almost boyish in countenance. He was currently unemployed, but a bit of a local hero, after he'd fought as the First Unit Captain of the Shinsen Patrol in the Tokugawa days. He'd known Hajime for an eternity. That gave him certain ... _privileges_ over the other man.

Only the lamps were lit, and the house was bathed in a soft yellow glow. A thoroughly Japanese house, but Hajime had furnished it like a European. He had spent just too long in the west, but not enough to give up on _soba_. Okita winced at the memory of how much his friend liked wheat noodles.

"Mr. Hajime is not home," said Tokio quietly. She was his newest employee, lasted record of three moths. She was a pretty girl who did not come from Kyoto, and she was very efficient and very devoted.

In silence, Okita followed her into the drawing room where she set warmed _sake_ before him while he waited. He settled into a big, rounded wicker chair padded with cushions, that seemed to be his inexorable favourite in Hajime's house. He leaned back, and closed his eyes.

This place was oppressively silent, lit only by yellow lamps that were as bright as a wolf's eyes, Hajime's eyes. Hajime who liked the silence. More than once, Okita was struck that the atmosphere simply lacked the cries of laughter. The laughter of children.

But Hajime would love no woman, and no woman would love him.

Tokio was badly scared by her employer at first. It took Okita and many weeks to convince her he was a nice man deep, _very_ deep inside. Sometimes, when he caught her looking at Hajime, he swore there was always something that he could place, mingled with the colour of her eyes.

An hour passed lazily, and within that, he had cracked his eyes open and was reading Hajime's newspaper. There was nothing of interest, but some of the headlines had been circled in red. Okita knew better than to wonder what was of speculative interest in something capped, "VEGETABLE PRICES RISE."

He was distinctly sure that it was Hajime's doing, not Tokio's. _Definitely_ not Tokio's. People knew better than to fiddle with Saito Hajime's newspaper.

There was the sound of the door being opened, and Okita sat up, and Tokio emerged. She bowed out of courtesy to someone Okita couldn't see. He heard footsteps, and the next thing he knew, he was being cuffed by a fist balled up in a white glove.

"Yow, Hajime," he complained rubbing the side of his head. "Can you just stop doing that?"

But Saito was already sitting down, lighting a cigarette. "When'd you get here?"

"An hour or so," said Okita, settling back with the paper. "Lost track of time. Where the hell were you, anyway? You normally get off at five-thirty. It's seven now."

"At the station," said Saito taking a long drag and exhaling. "I just got promoted. _Inspector_ now, officially. _Inspector_ Goro Fujita. Can't believe I even went into all this work." He ran a hand through his cropped black hair.

He wasn't supposed to be known as Saito Hajime, the notorious slasher. He was just another justice department official. He'd had to cut his hair and change his residence, and he hated all of it.

"Congratulations, Hajime," said Okita warmly.

"Feh. I've written for special permission, too. I hate those measly sabres we have. Some days I don't think I spear people well enough without my sword. Bloody_ eejits_."

Tokio poked her head in. "Will you be having supper with us, Mr. Souji?" Saito glanced at Okita who shrugged. "If it's not too much trouble, I will. Thank you, Miss Takagi."

"Why do you always call her _Miss_ Takagi?" said Saito bluntly.

"Why does _she_ always call you Mr. Hajime?"

"There's a difference, here." Saito grinned. "_You_ don't work for me, but you can start tomorrow at seven if you're so persistent." Okita was surprised; he had not heard a crack from Hajime all month.

They lapsed into more serious conversation, politics, the world, Okita keeping tabs as best as he could on veterans from the bloody Revolution. Tokio appeared once or twice or so, but just in passing. She smiled to herself as she saw the two men: Okita leaning forward in the chair, his fingers interlocked, and Saito, intent, with his legs crossed and still smoking.

She was not surprised. They were like this each Monday evening. Playful banter, serious discussions, strange debates, and supper for Okita sometimes. He really was a nice man. It was saying something, for Tokio had been brought up on the principle of, "_Never accept rides from strange men, and remember— all men are strange_."

It didn't help that Saito was a formidable gentleman even in his own home. It had shocked her senseless when she had found out that she had been working for the ruthless blood-hungry slasher they often called the Mibu Wolf from where she came from, and not the relatively harmless police officer Goro Fujita.

But after she had lasted a three weeks with him, and survived absolutely unscathed, and after he'd been almost _friendly_ to her, much less like the authoritative no-nonsense employer, she decided she liked him too, and it would be a shame to lose a job that paid so much. A woman living alone in a big city needs two things: a roof and money, and Saito Hajime was giving her both.

And an added asset was Okita Souji's ever-cheerful face and company.

She took the food off the fire, and took it to the dining table.

"The food's all prepared," she said to the two gentleman who were wildly gesticulating in disagreement. They froze at the sight of her, fists poised inches from each other's faces.

Tokio sheepishly backed out. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Silence followed her seconds later, and there was only the sound of badly suppressed female laughter.

* * *

The sound of the wind rustling through the trees, kept Saito awake all night. He sat up in bed, just listening. Gently, Okita snored in the guest room. Saito was usually a solid sleeper, but tonight, something akin to, but not quite, hunger gnawed at him, and he couldn't lie back down and close his eyes.

Silently, he got out of the covers and padded out on the wooden room. He moved quickly and soundlessly, and you couldn't distinguish him from his shadow. He was in his own home, and surrounded by friends, and yet, his old habits would always haunt him.

He stood outside Tokio's door, and he heard her breathing slow and steady. He moved through the rooms, and he was standing bare-foot outside the house. He stood perfectly still, and the breeze washed past him, a dark blue figure in front of the giant silhouette of a wolf's den.

The voice came like a whiplash from his throat.

"Whoever the hell you are, you'd better come into the open before I find you."

No reply; the branches of the cherry tree within his yard waved, touching against the trees that lined the street. The silent night pressed itself closer, and movement darted so fast that it was an illusion almost. Only a sheet of paper was tacked to the inside of the fence.

Saito waited sixty seconds, before he walked up to it, and resignedly tore it off the knife that pinned it in place with the wood. The sheet said nothing; it was blank and dark. But even as he held it, his fingertips felt wet.

The faint moonlight glided across the paper surface, and unflinchingly he realised that it was splattered with fresh blood.

He touched the paper, pressing his finger to it. Was it human blood? Probably, yes. Anyone who wanted to leave Saito Hajime an anonymous threat, could not have been a coward. He crumpled it into a ball, and walked back into the house.

The first thing that met him was Tokio. She was in the living room, waiting for him. Her face was white with sleep, and her eyes hooded. "Are you alright, Mr. Saito?" she asked. "I heard you get up."

He nodded curtly, and walked past her. He needed peace. He had to go to work tomorrow morning. But that was not to be. Okita Souji was jealously guarding the door to his room, a most intolerable habit of a house guest towards his host.

"Where were you, Hajime? And who were you talking to?" he demanded instantly, fully awake.

Saito, who felt little upto explanations of phantoms in his front yard, muttered some shocking profanity, and pushed his friend aside. The _shoji_ rattled closed behind him, and he dragged a chair to keep it closed. He flicked the paper ball aside, and got into bed. This time, he didn't wake up until eight-thirty in the morning.

* * *

_Never accept rides from strange men, and remember all men are strange_. 

**Robin Morgan.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two **

Okita Souji overslept, and by the time he woke up, his head was pounding like he had a hangover. The entire house was silent, and at first, he couldn't place what day it was, or even where he was. Surely, he hadn't gone for a drink last night. Had he?

He sat up, staring at the unfamiliar room. He didn't quite remember ever buying feather pillows ... Then it came flooding back in such a rush, that he fell back on the bed. He was in Hajime's house. And last night, Hajime yelling at someone ... Okita clambered out, and ran out of the room.

Nearly crashing into Tokio, who was carrying a breakfast tray in her hands.

"Good morning, Mr. Souji," she said uncertainly, falling back a step. "Did you sleep well?"

He nodded distractedly. "Where's Saito?"

She looked apologetic. "Mr. Hajime has gone off to work. A carriage picked him up outside, and he told me that if anyone should call at the house for him today, I should tell them to come tomorrow. I doubt he is in Edo."

Okita nodded. She went on, "Something may be wrong, though. He did not eat before he left. Would you like breakfast, Mr. Souji?"

"Sure, thank you, Miss Takagi. That's awfully generous. By the way, have you been to Hajime's room this morning?"

"Mr. Hajime prefers that I should not disturb it."

"So, it's in the same condition as last night?"

"I think it is. Is there something that you want?"

"No, I was just asking."

He waited until she had disappeared in the general direction of the kitchen, and then, he turned in his steps and paused outside Hajime's door. The part of the house, aside from Tokio's room, where he was not allowed.

Inhaling deeply, Okita opened the _shoji_, and slipped inside. The first thing that struck him was that the place was in a mess.

The bed was rumpled, Hajime's starched blue jacket tossed in a bundle on the floor. The door to his wardrobe was half-open, and the clothes were in a state of disarray. If nothing else, the _hakama_ was missing. Laundry, he guessed. Unless Hajime was wearing it to work with his shirt.

He glanced around. The walls, the ceiling, the floor ... there was no hint of a clue. What had happened last night, and who had come to the house? It seemed like Okita would never know. It was then he saw that white thing lying on the jacket. It was a paper ball.

Picking it up, he smoothed it out. He could barely stifle the cry of disgust and horror.

Blood. The paper was soaked in it. Whose blood was it? And why did Hajime have it?

He scoured through his friend's possessions for the next fifteen minutes, and then he heard Tokio announcing breakfast. He slipped out as quietly as he came in, the paper-ball in his pocket. He'd confront Hajime with it outside the house.

The food was nice and hot, and Tokio was an excellent cook. The two of them ate in silence. When he was done, Okita offered to do his dishes: payment for her hospitality. He thanked her profusely for "everything you do for us," and courteously bowing, he left. Tokio Takagi was alone in the house once more.

It was nothing new. She was the housekeeper, the one who took care of it when Mr. Saito was not home. But today, that morning, a strange sense of solitude washed through her. She was the only one there. Alone.

Despair and desperation was not something she was used to feeling. She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, so she retreated to the drawing room, bringing a few blank sheets of paper and a charcoal pencil with her.

She knelt before the table, and placed the sheet on it. She thought for a while, the nib tapping against the tabletop. She could think of nothing to draw, and she went outside, sat on the porch for sometime, and went back in to draw the thin trees.

Then she drew the moon and some clouds, the fence and the gate, and the black house standing in shadow. She hesitated, and then she drew a dark figure outside the house, a policeman's hat angled over the head, hand resting at the raised hilt of the sword.

In the bottom-right corner, she signed her name in tiny writing, and with a flourish, added the date.

Very much into drawing Mr. Saito now, she began a fresh sketch, the centre of the page being occupied by Goro Fujita, and like the penumbra of a shadow, she lightly limned the "Mibu Wolf," who always preceded Saito Hajime's face.

She worked with her pictures all day, until it grew into the afternoon, and she gathered them up and put them on the dresser for the minute, and went into the kitchen to get the food on the fire. Hungry, she made _tsukudani_ and rice, and as usual, ate alone.

* * *

Saito Hajime was having a very bad day. He had arranged to meet with Chou Sawagejo at twelve, in one of the pubs, and the guy had turned up half-hour later, claiming he'd been mugged on the way and had to take it upon himself to retrieve his hard-earned yen.

Considerably annoyed, Saito told Chou about the previous night's threat.

"Hmm," had been the other man's first reaction. He was Saito's top informant, and pretty reliable by his usual standards. "I'll look into it, see how many local gangs there are with that sort of MO."

"It wouldn't be a bunch of philandering crooks who rob old ladies, you idiot," snapped Saito, irritated by the man's inexplicable dimness. "It's too high up, too crafty. There were no traces at my place whatsoever, I checked myself."

"Try Shishio Makoto, then," said Chou with a grin that predicted muted incredulity.

Saito's eyes narrowed. The gold flecks hardened. "Shishio Makoto is missing, and at large. Figures he might be collecting an army of followers, and slowly eliminating all past threats he had once faced." His eyes settled on Chou.

"Hey. What are you looking so alarmed for? Don't tell me you're scared of a bastard like Shishio."

The look wiped itself off Chou's face. "'Course I'm not scared," he snorted. "Besides, they burned Shishio alive, he might be _dead_, for all we know."

"Hn," said Saito speculatively, "but the dead have a nasty habit of springing back to life."

Chou shot him an odd look, which he swiftly ignored. Saito glanced at the time. "Damn. It's already late." He got up from the table. "I have to go, I have an appointment with an important bureaucrat about some stupid bridge. I'll see you at four in the usual place, alright? You'd better have something waiting for me."

With that lingering threat, Saito strode out into the carriage waiting for him, ever composed and unhurried.

His meeting was a smooth operation, and at the end of it he was told in person that his _katana_, the heavy samurai sword, was officially licensed, and he could carry it to work proceeding from Friday. This produced little outward emotion.

With nothing to do for two hours, Saito stopped by a geisha restaurant for a very late lunch. It was lavish, unlike the diners and pubs and living room he was used to, and had it not been for the entertainer on his arm, he would have stormed out the second he learned there was no _soba_ available.

He ate something more complimentary, secretly deciding to murder the chefs in their sleep. With four o' clock around the corner, and he arrived at the meeting point on the bridge.

It was an ancient stone structure that was built over a clear stream that bubbled and tripped over the rocks and stone. Small, bright-coloured flowers grew by its sides. Chou was anxiously waiting for him, a bag of live wires.

"Find anything?" asked Saito casually, lighting a cigarette out of his pocket.

"Hell I did," snapped Chou. "The bad news is that _they've_ started to move into the open, and we've got to forget Shishio and letters for a while."

"What's the good news?"

"You get an excuse to use that sword of yours."

Saito knew what "they" referred to so covertly. It was a gang of powerful drug-lords the police had been trying to get for ages. They were a clever lot of combined brains, and they didn't move much after they received a shipment, sometimes waiting for months before they started selling their goods abroad.

Rumour had it, as Chou reported, at least one of them had been in league with Shishio Makoto, and now that the main guy was dead, this fellow intended to carry out his regime of terror. Needless to say, drug trafficking was just an excuse for arrest.

A thought struck Saito. "Hey," he said. "What if it was one of those guys at my place last night?"

"Nah," said Chou dismissively in a manner that might have got him killed had he not been, in one word, "useful." "I've seen the whole ensemble. They're all too fat. Which reminds me, they've found a new recruit for their security. A guy called Iwanbu, ever heard of him?"

Saito gave a denial.

"You're lucky. He's as much of a heavyweight as he is dumb. From what I've heard of him, even soap bubbles _bounce_ off him without bursting, forget bullets."

"You said he's stupid, right?" said Saito, unconcerned. "There's not much of a threat in a big-sized rubber ball." Of course, he was incredibly lucky that he never really met the infamous "rubber ball." Not that he'd admit he was _lucky_.

"You were saying about the gang moving out—?"

"Oh? Yeah," Chou took up his story once more. "I've got it that they're planning to smuggle their cargo of opium abroad into Holland. The demand is big in Japan, but risky. They're moving the stuff to a warehouse near the docks. Tomorrow. They'll set sail next week.

"I've already got one of my men infiltrating the group. He's been among them for a couple of months now, and he's one of the men responsible for moving all those crates of opium. He's been keeping me informed, and I'll send you a note as soon as their work begins."

"Efficient. Wouldn't have thought it of you, Sawagejo." Saito smirked.

"There's just one thing, Hajime. This whole thing has a HANDLE WITH CARE label pasted on it. You know we can't have the local police botching it up. If you could get some of the ... "

"Shinsen Patrol?" Saito thought about it, and the scowl pressed into his face. "I'll do my best to get some of them rounded up.

"Only the best," reminded Chou, as he turned to leave. "And I really appreciate the help, Hajime."

Saito stayed on the bridge, and the afternoon sun dipped low in the sky behind him. He took one last drag from his cigarette and flicked it away. He walked to the waiting carriage in silence, and rode back, jolting with every bump on the road, his mind immersed in swirling, troubled thoughts.

* * *

"Good evening, Mr. Hajime," Tokio greeted him with a smile. He looked at her, instantly suspicious. " I've laundered your jacket like you asked me to. And I've made the supper quite hot, and your _sake_ is waiting for you."

He nodded, taking off his black shoes. "Is there any reason why you're so particularly cheerful?"

She shook her head, still smiling. "I just missed having you home today."

"I missed you too," he returned gruffly, smiling back at the girl.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three **

It rained heavily, torrents of rain pounding down on the streets and splashing about where people stepped into the slush and puddles. It was the rush hour on the Kyoto streets, and Saito Hajime was as glad as hell that he was safe where it was dry. He visibly shuddered his angular frame at the thought of muddy trousers.

Smoke spiralled from the edge of the fast diminishing cigarette he held between gloved fingers, and he took another drag from it. He was not the quarry of cancer, and he disregarded the warnings on the cigarettes that he carelessly consumed, for the years of smoking built immunity inside him.

Even the doctor admitted it— cigarettes were good for him.

Was it strange to your ears? That was Saito Hajime described beautifully in two syllables.

He was a strange man, and he freely admitted it, although his friends and foes didn't share that liberty. He was dangerous and ruthless, and he hated his job, for a policeman's clothes bound his hands and his lust for the kill like nothing else could. He had lost all of his friends and his comrades on the field or in the hospital, and with each death, the demon in his chest lost some more of its dormancy.

A man of many enemies, Saito had little friends and he cared not to make any. Extending his hand to a man who may not be there the next day, appealed to him little. Perhaps the only one to care for him was Okita Souji, and Saito pushed him away like all of them.

He flicked the cigarette out on the street, its orange glow muted and smothered in the rain, and he closed the window. He glanced back at his office, at the sluggishly ticking clock on the wall. Chou was late.

Should he wait any longer for the green light? The brains that had kept him alive through the Tokugawa Revolution said, yes he should. And quite loudly.

But what if something had gone wrong?

Impatiently, Saito began to pace about his office on the top floor. Activity kept him occupied, and he ran over in his head various logical explanations of what might have happened. Finally, he settled on the fact that he had no clue, and flung open the door, his skin prickling with the familiar thrill of the anticipated kill.

"Inspector Fujita!"

Saito started. He froze momentarily in the corridor of the police station. He whirled around, snarling, "What the hell do you want now?"

Instantly, the junior officer seemed to have been drained of all the gusto and the pomp that puffed his chest at the prospect of catching the rock-hard stone-cold Goro Fujita off guard. He withered under the other man's glower.

"There's a lady here to see you, sir," he said very subserviently. "She says it's very important, or I would not have bothered you."

"If it's a Kamatari Honjo, then you can revise your pronouns," he snapped, forever in cold dread of meeting that particular ghost of his past.

"It's your housekeeper," the fellow said meekly. "Sir," was hastily added.

Saito's amber eyes narrowed. What the hell was _she_ doing here? He followed the man down the stairs. There was the sound of excited voices in the lobby, and Saito was greeted with stunned shock at what he saw. Not a single man was at their desk.

A woman drenched to her skin in a pathetic _haori_, was drying herself with a towel, surrounded by a circle of sympathetic officers. A regular visitor to the police headquarters, Okita Souji glanced up as Saito pushed his way through the crowd.

"Fujita," he greeted cursorily. "It's about time you showed up." Thunder boomed in recognition, and lightning filled the station with silver.

The woman looked around.

"What are you doing here?" Saito demanded, not knowing really how to react.

Despite circumstances, Tokio smiled sheepishly, and drew out a long, white envelope that was damped with the rain that had soaked through her clothes. "It arrived for you just a while ago." The bulk of the letter was visible through the envelope, and the address in ink was runny and blotted.

Groaning at the anticipated content, at her and the situation in general, Saito took it from her. Unceremoniously ripping the soggy paper envelope apart, he read the letter in a few swift movements of his eyes, and binned its envelope. His eyes swept over her.

He shrugged out of his heavy blue jacket, and tossed it at her. "Stay here until the storm clears. You, Souji, since you have nothing to do, make sure she's all right."

"Yeah, yeah, Fujita, you're always the only one who works around the office, I know," but his eyes registered understanding that said, _You can wager all your horses on it_.

Saito binned the torn pieces of the letter in one swift throw, and turning on his heel, he went out into the rain, grabbing the umbrella _en route_.

"Okay people, circus is over, let's get back to doing whatever the heck you were doing," Okita's called out, sharply clapping his hands for dispersal. "Do you want to stay until he comes back?" he added kindly to Tokio.

She nodded through chattering teeth, and slipped into the warmth of the jacket, starched, warm and crisply ironed, familiar to the smell of Saito's cologne.

"I really don't know why you insist on working with a guy like Fujita," said Okita, sighing, half-genuinely, and half for the benefit of the lingering officers. Everyone did all they could to ensure no one connected Hajime with Goro Fujita.

"Here you go, Miss Takagi." He passed her a steaming cup of coffee. She took it from him gingerly.

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully. She took a cautious sip. Even the electrocuting hot touch revived her nerve ends, and warmth crept back into her flesh. Nodding, Okita moved away.

* * *

The blood pounding in Saito Hajime's ears blocked out the sound of the rain pattering on his clothes, as he sat crouched behind a large empty crate. Right at the other end of the road, was Kazuo Ishikawa, waiting for the signal.

The warehouse was occupied with the bustle of criminal humanity, and the gas lamps were lit visibly, their glow poured out into the storm. Chou was not here. He'd sent a letter to say he was in police custody for carrying an unauthorised weapon. That was perhaps the shoddiest excuse the man had come up with.

Saito waited with ten efficient killers, all carrying swords, and all secured in different locations. Blades were the best weapons since a gunshot might attract attention. The traffickers were moving their load by carriage to another warehouse, one that closer to the port. The guards were on frequent patrol, and everyone sat still with suppressed breath.

Under the sound of the rain, Saito heard a distinctly fleshy sound he never thought he would hear again, since the day he draped around his shoulders, the mantle of Goro Fujita. Ishikawa caught his eye, and he tensely nodded. Silently, Saito crept out of the cover, and darted to where the other two men were concealed.

Four incapacitated guards, apparently dead, met his gaze. "All cleared," reported Reiji Hoshou with a wry grin.

Like the shadows that glide in the dark night, the ten of them silently surrounded the warehouse. Backed by two others, Saito broke through the front door. Instantly, activity froze at the sight of cold, drawn steel.

"Good evening," greeted Saito politely. His eyes flicked over them. He remembered what Chou had said, and quite rightly he guessed the nervous-looking gentleman in side-splitting dress suits, surrounding the gambling table, were the ganglords.

There was the crash of splintering glass, and more comrades made their entrance through the windows.

Reiji Hoshou beamed at them all. "Wow, lookey this," he exclaimed in surprise, "the whole gang's here to greet us." One man stood up threateningly from the table, and with nearly inhuman speed, Hoshou was standing behind him, a knife pressed to that podgy throat. "I wouldn't advise you to give a standing ovation," he whispered, his eyes glowing wickedly.

The man's piggy eyes widened, and everyone stepped away.

Thirty-three men present, as Saito would estimate. He tried to scan them for the one he was looking for, but before he knew it, he found himself on the floor flat on his back, a short man with a gun landed on his chest like an overexcited dog.

Saito kicked the man off, and climbed to his feet. He froze slowly. The barrel was aimed between his eyes.

"Don't even think about moving," growled the gunman in a deep, surprisingly rich baritone. Gun trained, he turned his head a fraction. "Let go of the guy and back away," he yelled at Hoshou, "or I nail dead your boss right now."

Hoshou grinned nervously and removed the knife. His eyes searched the others' faces as he slowly retreated away.

_Thump_. The gunman lay dead on the floor. The gang lord had barely massaged his neck when Hoshou had him in his grip again.

"Anyone else?" Saito called out coldly.

* * *

One hour had gone by. Okita Souji glanced at the clock. The storm had let up a while ago, but where was Hajime? The bloody paper he had found in Hajime's room was returned to its rightful owner, but the bastard was as tight as a clam about it.

"Stick your nose into someone else's business, dammit, because I'm not telling you a thing," had been the precise words.

Biting his lip, Okita glanced at Tokio. She was curled up on a bench, the three-sizes-too-big jacket falling loose around her shoulders. The worry stood out evidently in her eyes. She had been waiting without any news.

Finally, she stood up, unable to wait any longer.

"Miss Takagi," he called out to her. "Can I escort you home?"

She shook her head. "It's alright; I'll make it on my own. But I'd be obliged if you'd tell the Inspector where I am, in case he asks."

Okita nodded, and watched as she crossed the floor, and let herself out the door. Few people took notice of Inspector Fujita's servant. He silently watched her through the window, until she disappeared into the mist of the damp night.

He thought of Saito, unfeeling and cold. And he thought of how Tokio often called him his real name. She knew who he was, the Third Unit Captain of the Shinsen Patrol, not Goro Fujita, the shell that was an alias. Hajime trusted a common girl enough to let her know one of his deadliest secrets.

Okita laughed aloud, which he smothered hastily as heads turned in his direction, eyebrows raised. Hajime cared for Tokio. Oh yes, Hajime really cared. Even if he had no idea of it himself. Maybe the ice was melting. Maybe the sun could rise in the west.

He laughed again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: Right. Let's sit down and clarify.

Firstly, I'm really sorry, but it totally slipped my mind about Okita, and THANK YOU for reminding me, **Yuriko Star**. As of now, "_Unending Winter_" is _SEMI_-AU.

Reiji Hoshou isn't really one of the Shinsengumi. I've been to a zillion sites, but you can hardly expect them to put up a list of Shinsen warriors and kitchen-boys on the Internet. I ran a search for him too, but he doesn't exist at all. Therefore, he IS indeed an OC in every sense, and since I do _not_ like OCs as a rule, I will try and get rid of him as soon as possible. Thanks anyway, **Saitouu Ryuuji**.

About the Saito-Chou thing, let's just look at it like this: Chou and Saito meet on informal terms, pre-canon. When they meet again, Saito, for reasons that follow in the story, _pretends_ he doesn't know Chou.

**wintersmoon21105** and **sceptical**, I'm flattered.

**Alexnyukiluvr**, thanks, since you're perhaps the only other one who actually expressed an opinion.

And **sueb262**, I have a heck of a lot of things to say ... but I've forgotten most of it.

* * *

**Chapter Four **

Tokio looked up from where she was stoking the fire. The sound of shoes being kicked off had diverted her attention. Mr. Hajime always committed that one action with unnecessary force, and it echoed through the house.

"Supper?" she asked him, and he shook his head. She offered him a light meal, but he refused again.

His handsome features were marred by a scowl when he emerged into the dining room. She was used to him when he came home with his moodiness after dealing with particularly nasty pieces of work. She watched him lower himself into a chair, strain showing visibly in his eyes.

Despite the gaze trained on him, he unbuttoned his shirt and left it loose. He didn't touch the coarse reddening bandages that were wound around his ribs, and unsheathing his sword, he carefully wiped the blood from it.

Laying aside the poker, Tokio got up and silently went into the kitchen. The bowl of _udan_ was cold in her hands, and she heated it for a few minutes. Usually his dinner was much more substantial with a hefty share of meat, but a very late and very light supper would improvise.

She poured out a quantity of warmed _sake_ to supplement it. Setting it on a tray with the wheat noodles and chopsticks, she carried it to the table. Saito was polishing his blade, and didn't look up.

"Is anything wrong, Mr. Saito?" she asked uncertainly. An unpredictable man of rigid habits, this was unusual of him.

"Hn?" he grunted. "No, not really."

"Those dressings will need to be changed," she observed.

"I'll do it myself."

"How did you get wounded so badly, Mr. Hajime?"

"Despite a couple of warnings, a bastard nicked me."

"Are you sure you don't want me to change those?"

A self-explanatory silence.

Undaunted, and still smiling, Tokio picked up the inverted book she had left on the lumpy sofa opposite the fire, and she read the night away. Saito watched, out of the distant corner of his eye, as she sat curled up beneath the heavy afghan; her head was bent, her long dark braid falling over her shoulder. He even watched her while he ate, unable to take away his intrusively observant sight. It was a bad habit, acquired and unshakeable.

He could read her like the book she was absorbed in, and it spurred him and egged him on in loud demanding tones. Turning over his personality at the back of his subconscious mind, he stared at himself with a mixture of horror, disgust and vague amusement.

Dipping his chopsticks into the bowl, he lifted the stringy noodles, and began to eat.

Something had been tugging at his mind all the way back, and in the peace and warmth of his home and food, he let himself mull over it.

Firstly, despite the delay he'd warned them about, Chou hadn't shown his one-eyed mug at the warehouse at all, and that counted for something suspicious. The opium traffickers had probably been expecting his arrival, because his visit was in vain. They already carried a murdered man on their backs. A man that none of them had killed, and a man whose killer they did not know.

The dead man had been that loyal hanger-on of Shisho Makoto's.

Saito had a naggy suspicion for a growing amount of time that all of those men were underlings of Shishio— and his hunches had a straight record for being dead on right.

But only two other people had known what he had known about the man. Okita Souji and Chou Sawagejo. He would trust those two men with his life if the need arose, and he refused recognition to the notion that one of them leaked information. Saito was a clever man and his shrewdness had kept him alive for this long, and he didn't trust easily.

But when he did, it was iron-tight and leak-proof. There would be no folly.

So what the hell had just happened?

* * *

If nothing, the entire incident had only served to anger Saito further. He hated people who thought they could just walk into a place, piddle with the working of things until it suited their own convenience, and just walk back out. 

He called in sick at work, and scoured the countryside for Chou who had virtually disappeared. Saito realised he didn't even know where that blond devil lived. Disappointed heavily, he trudged back home, moving gingerly with the splitting pain in his middle.

"Mr. Hajime," Tokio stood up quickly as he came into the house. "Can I get you something?"

His eyes swept over the scenery. She'd been knitting. Winter was almost here. And so was Christmas. He'd definitely have to remember to get her something. "Fresh bandages," he said, returning his gaze to her face.

She nodded and went out. The old ones were soaked with blood and the agony of movement. Since he was exhausted of all energy, Tokio changed them for him. For the first time, he could appreciate how light and gentle the touch of her slim fingers, were against his skin.

He looked at her, but her head was lowered as she worked, and he shifted in the armchair to make it easier for her. When she finally sat back on her heels, he smiled at her, a small, imperceptible gesture, and said gruffly, "Thanks."

She stood up, and moved away with the used cloth. Saito remained where he was, his eyes following her. She was an amazing woman. There was no other way to put it. She should be married off and manning a family; she had no business as his housekeeper at all.

* * *

Okita stopped by later in the evening, to see how things were going, and he brought with him a visitor. Saito, tired and half-asleep like an old man in front of the fire, sat up straighter, pleasantly surprised and mildly curious to see who it was. 

"Sorry about getting you slashed at," was the first thing Reiji Hoshou could say. His eyes that usually glimmered with unabashed monkey-like thrill in anticipation of a good fight he'd be winning, were discoloured and apologetic. "I'm s'posed to watch your back, get 'em before the bastards can get you, I should've seen that there were more of 'em who'd follow Short Stuff's lead. But at least they didn' have a gun like he did."

Saito didn't react. Not immediately. His gaze, fully controlled now without the vestiges of drowsiness, swivelled to Okita, blasting him with icy, bitter coldness. The man held his ground, looking back levelly with the hint of amusement.

"What've you been telling Hoshou here?" he growled out.

"Nothing," said Okita, unrepentantly.

Hoshou would betray nothing either, under the freezing force of Saito's eyes. "So, you forgive me?"

"I'm not giving you a pay rise, if that's what you mean."

After they'd left a good while later, leaving Saito in better humour, Tokio dared herself to come into the drawing room.

"Are you feeling better, Mr. Hajime?" she asked, standing a little away, so that the firelight made her black hair glow a dark red-brown shade. Her hands were clutched together; her voice apprehensive and worried, since he hadn't asked to see her, or even said a word since she'd changed his bandages for him.

Saito turned his head, his back leaning into the comfortable stuffing of the armchair. His eyes fell on her, taking time to adjust to the dimness the of the room as compared to the grate he'd been staring into. He seemed surprised to see her, unrecognising even for a long minute.

And then, to her surprise— laughter rumbled out of his throat.

Tokio smiled too. She was taken aback certainly, but it was in a good way. The feeling of slow, warm contentment spreading through her inside that if he could laugh after being stabbed, then, maybe, there was something blooming inside him.

Maybe that something was peace.

Maybe that was why she didn't hear the dark bitterness diffused in such mellow light with his voice.

When it died away, the house fell silent with only the crackle in the grate. The old, heavy oppressiveness was flooding in, and dimmed as his gaze was getting with drowsiness, dull pain, and the brightness of the fire, Saito said, even his voice creaking, "How was your day?"

Tokio lurched. She nearly tottered back on an old woman's feet, and fell. "It was alright," she mumbled, trying not to look at Saito.

"That's not possible," he argued. "_Something_ must have happened, no matter how banal it was."

Her hands started to twist in her lap. "Erm, I saw a few familiar people today when I went to get fresh bandages today, I just hope I wasn't too late in coming back."

"No. You weren't," he said assuring her. "Or at least, I hadn't noticed. Sit."

"I'm sorry?"

"_Sit_. Sit down, and start jabbering. I want to hear about what you do."

Bemused, and faintly nervous, Tokio complied. There was nothing much to talk about, since almost every day was the same to her, long hours of the morning spent by herself, trying to occupy time with groceries, shopping, cooking, sketching if she had the time. The evenings were perhaps what she'd call her reward, but no one else would, since she'd nothing, and no one to look forward to, but Mr. Hajime, who was angry and moody all the time, but cared and didn't want to show it.

What issued from her mouth, however, was a prettily painted picture of a busy day, occupied as best as possible. She didn't say how she felt something gnaw at her heart when he was late and didn't send word about it. She left out conveniently how she'd nearly cry when she saw him drag himself into the house, splashed with mud and blood that was his own.

What she _did_ say, or let slip, was that sunset and the cool minutes of twilit night that followed was her favourite time of day. She'd stand over the dishes she was cleaning, her gaze transfixed to the clear view out the kitchen window, where she could see Mr. Hajime swing shut the gate, and stride up the pathway to his house, his shoulders thrown back even if his back was broken, the wind unable to scar the face of a soldier and a man.

He made her sit with him, and talk to him some more, his eyes half-closed in a manner that betrayed raptness more than words and movement could show.

Before she left to make supper, his strong voice called out behind her. It froze her, the strangeness of the words making her oddly glad, leaping with happiness inside.

"Tokio. I'd never let you go if I could have that chance."

A husband and kids for her be damned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: If **Saitouu Ryuuji** should be reading this, I've finally come up with a not-so-half-baked description of "Reiji Hoshou." (Gah, you'd think it took me long enough.) And this is _definitely_ the last time he shows up ... (unless I run out of a plot once more, and have to resort to desperate measures like this one again.)

And yay! I got someone else who's interested in this story! But as I mentioned earlier, **Misao Oneill**, this fanfic is Semi-AU, so that's how I can so easily explain away Okita's sudden aliveness.

* * *

**Chapter Five **

Peace does not last for long.

It snaps faster and louder than a willow branch.

Saito Hajime, one must understand, could never be at peace unless someone pressed the cold barrel of a gun to his head, clicked the safety catch off, and drew the trigger until his bones exploded.

Even so, he might just die with a snarl of profanity in his mouth.

The government was desperate to tear apart Shishio's legacy from his corpse, like a ravenous hyena rips flesh from a deer. They had murdered a man, they had stained their hands, and they would wash that blood even if they had to bleach the skins of their own palms.

It was just too bad that Saito was caught in the crossfire.

They were holding Goro Fujita's badge and office in suspension until they could be sure they could trust him. Because he had been unable to round up a terrorist's man who was worth tenfold than a gang of traffickers, (now, _how_ Chou's confidentiality was betrayed to Saito's disadvantage, no one knew) they were laying the blame on him anyway.

One would think someone so resourceful as Goro Fujita would struggle free of his bonds quite easily, but as it seemed, Saito Hajime was making no effort.

* * *

If there was one thing Tokio Takagi didn't handle in the house where she was employed, it was politics.

If someone had one day shoved a sabre into her hands and told her she would have defend her home from a rabid bear, the first thing she would have done would be to panic, and run to Mr. Hajime for protection.

She'd been brought up in a family where bread was broken equally between the men and women, although the only male had been her father, but if asked to stand guard, Tokio would have been afraid.

That Saito Hajime had fought the leaders of the nation, she knew very well, and that was all the more reason why she would trust her safety in his hands more than hers.

In that light, she knew a little about the workings of the government, their corruption and their desperation to save face, and she knew that was where Mr. Hajime emphatically did not need her.

So, while he was entertaining an important-looking government official (or rather, persuading the portly gentleman to leave by not letting him into the house,) Tokio chose her safest option and went out. Turnips for stew and a few wreaths of flowers were a shoddy excuse, but Mr. Hajime was too annoyed to notice.

Vegetable shopping was never her favourite thing to do, and standing in the noisy marketplace, overcrowded with bantering women, hen-pecked men and loud vendors, Tokio was finding it increasingly hard to be heard as she tried to bargain over the turnip.

It was easy to gauge her surprise, when vegetable in hand, she turned around and was thrown face to face with a familiar young man with tousled chocolate hair and jewel-bright eyes.

"Excuse me," he said, looking sheepish, "but don't I know you from somewhere..."

"Yes, you do," she said calmly. "You're Reiji Hoshou, and I'm Tokio. I work for Mr. Saito." She wasn't afraid of using his real name in front of someone else who knew it too.

"Oh ... oh, yeah..." Reiji ran a hand through his hair. "Thought you looked familiar. Eh ... is Saito alright?"

"I'm sure his health is fine," she said carefully.

"Nah, I mean ... y'know, his mood. He's always in bad humour after stuff like this happens, so I wanted to know if he was doing okay. Can't deny I like the grouch. Plays a good hand at cards."

Tokio laughed, and hurriedly clamped her hand over her mouth. Reiji cocked his head in amusement, and smiled at her. It was a half-grin, but its warmth was clear.

"I know what you mean," she said.

"Can I walk you home?" he asked her. "I'd like a glimpse of Saito if I can."

"Oh, I'm not going home right away," she said regretfully. "Mr. Hajime is entertaining company, and I wouldn't want to interrupt."

Reiji shrugged. He could guess easily what Saito was "entertaining," even if it wasn't in the news.

"Can I, err, come with you?"

Tokio smiled at him; it was almost a grin. "Even if I walk into a kimono store and ask you to model in some for me?"

Reiji laughed. "Okay, anything besides that ... kimono stores, and asking me to dance around with that turnip, too. I'll go anywhere but those two places." He leaned over, and plucked away the said turnip from her grasp. "It looks heavy," he explained. I'll hold it for you." At the look in her eye, he added, "And don't worry, I won't be running away with it, either."

They'd already started walking. Without even realising it, they were outside the hustle-bustle of the market.

"When will you be going back?" he asked her.

"Are you that impatient to be rid of me?"

"Quite the contrary. I'm only fishing for how much time I have with you, really."

"Oh, I'll say you have about half an hour."

Reiji beamed. "Can I buy you lunch, then? It's only common courtesy."

Tokio laughed. "It's three-thirty in the afternoon, I've already eaten."

He looked relieved. "Good. Because so had I, and unnecessary expenditure tweaks a wallet the wrong way, and wallets have really sharp teeth."

She giggled despite herself, and he looked pleased at his joke. He looked around them, his eyes locking on a painted bench outside a small shop from where copious amounts of steam were issuing.

"Ramen?"

She blinked. "My name is Tokio."

He grinned. "Nah, I mean, you want some ramen? Not even _I'm_ too stingy for some."

She followed his line of gaze. It wouldn't be bad, she thought. And the aroma drifting out was clear and pungent even from the distance she stood at. "Okay."

He left her sitting on the bench, holding the turnip, and returned a few minutes later. He was holding two bowls, and chopsticks. "Careful, it's hot," he warned, putting down one into the cup of her hands.

They sat on that bench, silently eating, occasionally breaking that soundlessness by a few words. It was a nice, quiet moment ... peaceful.

"We'll head back after this, alright?" she said, even though deep inside she was reluctant to.

"Hokay," Reiji mumbled beside her, his mouth full.

* * *

Tokio stood on the wooden walkway that ran around the house. She smiled, watching the sunlight glow in Reiji's hair. "I hope you visit again, Mr. Hoshou, it's nice to see you."

Reiji bit his lower lip, and nodded, looking thoughtful. He turned his head away for a second, as if deciding if she should be knowing this or not. "Ah, you see," he said, deciding on the truth. "I won't be in Kyoto much more. I'm going back to Kobe, since that's from where I come."

She was silent.

"I'll come, of course, if Saito should need me. I'll be here at once, but the only reason I was originally in town was because I had this funeral to come to ... and chances are I won't be in town again ...Lovely to meet you, though."

Reaching up, Tokio pushed back her hair behind her ears. "Then, I guess this is goodbye?"

"I guess it is. G'bye, Tokio Takagi."

She tried to smile, as she watched him walk down the front path to the gate. He pushed it open, and walked out. Past the fencing where he raised his hand in last farewell.

"Goodbye, Reiji," she murmured under her breath. She'd miss him.

"So will I."

Tokio started. She gasped as her heart really skipped a beat. "Mr. Hajime!"

Saito was standing behind her, his arms folded across his bare, bandaged chest, a cigarette in his mouth. He was smirking, but it wasn't so cynical, and his amusement was directed more at himself.

Tokio clutched her heart; it was still beating violently. Her cheeks were flaming from what she'd said aloud without recognizing it. "I'll — I'll go get the..."

She turned to go, her mumbling excuse fading into vapour. But Saito shot out and grabbed her. She winced at his grip on her arm, but he let go very fast. "You should look at that sky," he said abruptly.

Almost irritably, she turned around to see what he meant. The first real chills of winter fell at night, and she could feel it on her skin through the sleeves of her kimono. She looked up at the sky— and had to stifle the gasp.

The sunset was always beautiful, and tonight ... the clouds were frozen, held in place by that half-solid, half-liquid orange-violet light, the horizon painted in broad splashing colours. A large white flock of birds were flying south, and they seemed like silver-white flecks across a brilliantine orange sky.

She stood there beside Saito, her eyes wide open, swallowing it all in, transfixed by molten magic. Her hand found his hand, and her fingers intertwined with his. To her surprise, he didn't flinch, he didn't pull away— he only held her tighter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note**: I just noticed each chapter seemed a bit like an anime episode in their lives (minus slapstick humour ... okay, minus any humour at all.) I'll try and change that if can, make each chapter's end not so ... rounded. So, I guess this one's a good start since it has a bit of a lingering question to it, too.

And I really am very sorry about the late updates, but my other stories, and original fiction tends to get more priority when I have writer's block, and after that, well, "_Unending Winter_" just got shoved back more and more. BUT! The good news is that I kind of spent my vacation in the hills contriving more ways of progressing the plot to the point (ways that do not involve Reiji Housho, to whom I've become quite attached, even if I've kicked him out of this fanfic on his butt.) Updates therefore will hopefully be better, and faster.

And also a HUGE thank-you **alexnyukiluvr**, for reviewing, (and hopefully I'll come up with a more coherent argument against Aishwarya Rai, other than "I don't give two hoots if her grey-green eyes are called _green_, but she couldn't act to save her bloody career! ... Which by the way, isn't saved yet by _Provoked_.")

I hope, **Saitouu Ryuuji**, that I've sustained interest long enough through a chapter that really needs more work (but I'm too out of juice right now. :mutters about lazy berks that run around free these days:)

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Tokio opened the door in the morning to see that the first sprays of winter snow had come ... so maybe, just maybe, they'd have a white Christmas, after all.

"What is it?" said Saito thickly, and gave a violent sneeze.

Slowly, she turned away from the clump of snow scattered over the yard. "Nothing," she said, her words trailing.

"Close that damn door then," and he sneezed once more.

Tokio complied, and passed him a tissue in which he quickly buried his nose. And sneezed again. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Hajime."

He looked up at her, and arranged his expression into a small smile. "To you, too, Tokio." He pushed a small box across the dining table towards her. "I'll get you a proper present tonight, I just thought you would like to have this."

"You don't have to get me anything else, Mr. Hajime," she said quickly. She opened the box, untying the thin strand of ribbon around it. It was padded with soft cloth inside, and she picked up the present, her breath catching with the exquisiteness of it.

It was a comb for her hair, when she wore it up the traditional arrangement. Like a half-moon, big and perfectly rounded at the edges, it was a deep shade of crimson, splashed with purple and gold. There was a perfect little sun disc on it and frozen clouds too, making it look like the sunset sky.

"Oh, this is beautiful," she gasped. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Then I hope you'll wear it at the party they're throwing in the mayor's garden next week," said Saito, looking straight at her. His eyes were piercing her, but there was never that coldness and cool amusement when he looked at her.

He'd buy her a kimono to go with it, leave it on her dresser that night so that she'd find it before she went to sleep, or so dictated the unwritten tradition they'd followed each and every Christmas. And he had enjoyed every present she had left for him before he closed his eyes to the night, no matter how small, how trivial, how hand-made or useful or not, they were.

Some of Tokio's happiness evaporated before him. She stammered, "I-I'm not sure they'd invite me to that, Mr Hajime."

"Then, you can come as my guest," he said in a tone that settled everything without argument. "The hell I'm going to fall asleep because of a bunch of bureaucrats, without having someone remotely entertaining with me."

Without realising it, she coloured and her cheeks felt warm. "Th-thank you, Mr. Hajime."

He gave a terse nod. "Yes, yes. Is the food ready?"

"I'll get it." She hurried past into the kitchen, glad to have a distraction. _Why_? was all her mind could ask, not able to feel the joy she should be feeling. _What did he want from her_? _She was only his housekeeper_, _the maid_. Why did he treat her like something more? Why did he treat her like ... like his equal?

_No_, she thought violently, desperately refusing to acknowledge what her heart was whispering with the breeze. _He doesn't think of me as anything more_ ... _He can't_. _He_ wouldn't.

She should remember to keep in mind just _who_ exactly she was thinking about. Saito Hajime.

And it hit her, a swift blow that sent her doubling, the breath knocked out of her.

_He was doing this because he was obliged to_...

How could she have forgotten so easily the rain-drenched girl who had stood shivering on this doorstep after the storm, trying not to tremble in fear as Saito stood in the doorway, warm, golden light spilling out behind him, his cold, incurious gaze fixed on her.

How could _he_ forget the thin, shivering voice that spoke haltingly and almost pathetically, "Please, Mr. Fujita, my name is Tokio, and I'm lost in this city; please, _please_ will you help me? ..."

* * *

Christmas does wonders to the workplace.

Was what you'd hear in the West.

Sadly for the Kyoto police office, Saito Hajime was Japanese, bred and born. (For the most part, at least.) He did _not_ string up holly and decorations, shove a tree beside the front desk, and generally look chipper and declare a holiday.

Oh no. All he did was stamp his feet to get the feeling back into them, dust the snow from his coat, and stride up the stairs to his office, snarling at anyone who had the gall to halt him with a piteous, "Excuse me, Inspector Fujita—?"

He was, however, glad that Okita was not here today.

Generally the man would want to keep up a steady stream of inane conversation about the snow, about Christmas, the spirit of joy recognised on this birthday of the son of God, when all Saito wanted to do was enjoy a smoke and pore over his cases, all the while the mental gears turning with ways and means to neatly butcher Chou Sawagejo for betrayal.

Inspector Goro Fujita's office was on the second and topmost floor of the Kyoto police building. It was more of an attic, and it overlooked the city square and the railway station. It was dark, and there were numerous light bulbs screwed to the wall. There was little furniture aside from the aforementioned objects, and a new file cabinet.

And there was his sword. He hadn't had a chance to use it since after the Tokugawa revolution, and it sat sheathed on the far end of his desk, proudly displayed for all to see and be terrified of.

Saito closed his eyes. There were things to be done. His entire career was not to be wasted, after all, chasing a man who could very be dead, and thus a complete waste of time. But then again, that good-riddance-dead-or-otherwise fellow was still at the root of Saito's annoyance right now.

That was the only reason he was suspended from duty; the only reason he'd been called to his own office, for some sort of mock-hearing where the venerable old bureaucrats sat around discussing in front of him whether Goro Fujita should remain in office or not.

It was at times like this that he needed to convince himself that the slur was not technically personal; remind himself that he was man, not beast.

He glanced at the time, the fob-watch in the drawer. Nearing eleven. They should be here around now.

An important knock on the door disturbed him.

"Inspector Fujita, sir?" a voice called through the door.

"_What_?" he growled.

"Someone has come to see you."

Unlikely it was the collection he was expecting. Unlikely that they would be on time.

"I don't like visitors," he said from behind his desk. "Tell them to go away, and visit me at home after dinner. Or better yet, tell them to go and talk to someone else. I'm busy."

"Erm, sir, these gentlemen say it's to do with your badge."

Saito smiled to himself. "Let them in." He stood up, but didn't go around the desk, over which he shook their hands. Five of them, impeccably dressed waistcoat and all. He recognised their faces, the lean, hungry, fiscal look hidden in their expressions.

"Morning, gentlemen. I see we have a lot of things to discuss. Could I pour you a drink?"

He was certain how this would turn out. These men were all the same; even without being as criminally inclined as he would have liked, Saito knew how to play these men. Perhaps all he had to do was as little as explain the uncompromising position Chou had left him with. That would in all probability be enough proof that he was as loyal to the government as it gets, without speaking in realistic terms.

And if he could not sway the winds in his favour, well then, Saito would have to revaluate the level he would bend to before resorting to gut instinct and sense.

* * *

It was an unlikely notion that Tokio was home, since she didn't respond as he called out her name, coming back earlier than what he had expected. Everything seemed to be in order, and the lights were still burning in the drawing room and hers.

He'd stopped by a few stores on his way, and thankfully, one of them, about to be closed early by a whiskered, energetic man, had what he wanted. The kimono he'd promised himself to buy for her.

There were only a few times in his life that he'd seen Tokio dressed up in regal attire, her hair done traditionally and her make-up in place, and those times, she had looked beautiful.

Her kimonos weren't as exotic as the governor's wife's, nor were they very expensive. But they were pretty, and she was attractive in a homey and comely way all at once, so that altogether gave her an aura of glimmering loveliness.

This one had stretched his wallet, but not to an unreasonable degree, but it was perhaps what Saito, an utter novice in the concept female dress, would have envisioned her looking remarkable in.

Which brought the question of getting the wrapped parcel to her, leaving it for her to open until before she went to sleep, and keeping her occupied and out of her room until she felt the absolute, irresistible pull of slumber.

Summoning the courage to face all of that, he stood up. He stayed on his feet for a few moments, and walked deliberately towards her room. He stopped outside her door, and cleared his throat, his face reddened. "Tokio," he called out perfunctorily. "Are you in there?"

Because he was here for a _reason_, and he didn't want to be caught in some awkward position that would indicate he was going through her stuff. He was a samurai after all— he had honour to uphold. Not to mention dignity.

No one answered him.

Cautiously, he inched the _shoji_ open. He pressed one eye to the gap. There was no one inside.

As quick as the breeze, he sneaked in, sealing the door behind him. His eyes flicked over the place, studying the scenery of a woman's room. The first thing that struck him was its immaculacy. The floor was clean, everything in place, the bed done neatly, and the drawers all closed.

Saito walked to the dresser, and began to draw out his Christmas present, bundled in his jacket. But something on the dresser-top attracted his attention. It was a drawing in pencil, and _damn_, thought Hajime, his breath catching, _it's good_.

His hand wandered away from the wrapped lumpy parcel he was holding, and picked up the sheaf. The top one was a picture of the cul-de-sac outside, lined with trees and lampposts. There was another one with three people, one was an aging woman of fifty, another a girl in her late twenties, and the last one quite obviously, Tokio with her hair short, standing with her mother and her sister.

What shocked him nearly senseless, was the picture of him. It wasn't half-bad a portrait, but it was what she had done with him. His face was apparently central focus, and occupied a lot of paper. On the bottom-left side, was a miniature of Tokio, up to the shoulders, turned sideways.

But Saito could not tear his eyes away from it, because in the pencil strokes, he was smiling. Not a smirk, not a grin, but a _smile_.

He let it fall to the dresser, and sank down on her bed, reeling.

Was that what Tokio wanted to see? An employer who smiled at her more than once in a while? Did she want to work with a guy who was of a decent sort, who knew how to treat individuals like individuals? Was _that_ what she thought of him— a moody, scowling bastard?


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**: **Before you read this chapter**, I strongly recommend you **backtrack and re-read** **Chapter Two again**. At least **the** **Saito-Chou interactions.** This chapter does refer indirectly to a lot of things Chou did and said. I've remodelled the first chapter a bit, too.

Thank you to **omasuoniwabanshi**, for the beautifully constructive review which cheered me up considerably after writing this chapter, and **alexnyukiluvr**, here's the update.

**no one really**, I don't write for reviews so a total of thirteen reviews doesn't bug me so much. I love to hear from people if they liked my stuff, or what they didn't like about it, and even if every single person who reads this, doesn't review, it's okay— I really appreciate those who _do_. And thanks very much for the vote of confidence; I'd just finished writing this chapter when I logged on and found your review.

And I'm really sorry to everyone that this chapter is not as good as I could write it. I'm redoubling my efforts with the later ones for compensation, but for now I think I'll go off and read "_Summer_'_s End_" over and over again to cheer myself up about my writing. :hitches back theatrical sniffle:

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

The falling night was getting cold, and a strange sort of silence slowly descended. Where the air had once been ripped with loud cries, voices and human blood, the ground was littered now with maimed men, free and convicted.

The hansom lay on its side; the carcass of its horse slowly pressed the breath out of the man's chest, the policeman trapped beneath it.

Chou Sawagejo wiped the blade of his sword in one clean, long, theatrical sweep and sheathed it with the slide of metal and scabbard. He made an imposing figure in the twilight: the mixed light falling on him, slanting through the leaves and branches he stood under, both eyes terrifyingly open, his skin stained to the colour of crimson.

"Mr. Ch—"

"What?" he drawled.

The man banked short of him, unused to being spoken to like that. He was short, flabby, and in an expensive well-cut, pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and fob-watch on a gold chain. If Saito were to see him, he would probably be recognised as the drug-trafficker against whom Reiji Hoshou had held his blade the night a man wounded Saito.

And his name was Takamura, very docile a christening as compared to his deeds.

He wasn't supposed to be on his feet, walking free, but chained, after lounging in prison, being led to trial by an armed guard.

But then again, Chou was not one to sit back and let his debtors evade his grasp.

"What do you want?" he repeated, when Takamura continued his silence.

The man coughed, and cleared his throat, gesturing to the slaughter of policemen and horses. "What if Saito Hajime should find out about this?" There was little dubiousness to that, and Takamura's skin was ivory in the wan light. "I am, as you can damn well see, not in a position to oppose him right now. I need my men with me."

Chou looked at him, his eyes sweeping over the man, who shuddered inside under the intensity of the appraisal. Chou grinned.

"You know, Mr. Takamura, for a man as rich as you, you're pretty stupid if you get cold feet about Saito now. You already got him riled up when you tossed him the bloody threat in his backyard the last time, and now, you've nearly cost him his badge ... You signed your name to this, Mr. Takamura, and you'll be lucky if a man who's got eyes like Saito doesn't see it."

Takamura flushed, and colour, rich and angry flooded his face. Chou Sawagejo was not the type of acquaintance he like to keep for very long, and in the same diffused light that made Chou times more fearsome, Takamura gave an ugly smirk.

"What about you?" he spat almost, his lip curling, uneasiness gone. You were supposed to be on Saito's side."

Chou smiled serenely, both eyes shooting fire. "We'll see, won't we? How you can survive with my protection?"

* * *

Tokio moved away to stand under the shade of a tree, the damp chilly air biting at her skin where it was bare. The kimono she wore wasn't nearly warm enough without the shawl, and she clamped her fists inside the sleeves to hold to some semblance of warmth.

She still thought it hard to believe that she was here. But it scarcely mattered now. Saito hardly cared, still angry, expressing it in his cold, black way, venting it in curt, biting observations and remarks that made his colleagues and the junior officers cringe. She'd thought things were starting to get better, that the heavy, looming shadow of anger and inculcated animosity was dissipating, leaving the perch on his shoulder.

But the bureaucrats were still wary of Saito, afraid of him. She was just his housekeeper; she didn't know, and she didn't ask, if they knew what she also knew about Goro Fujita.

Either way, they still had Saito's shoes above the ground, their limbo, where he was still without his badge and suspended from office.

That the mayor would still want him to come to his gatherings, it probably had to do with the gentleman's wife, the dark, elegant lady who'd drawn Saito away minutes ago, him putting up a great armour of reluctance and hostility to the idea, casting glances over his shoulder in a show of concern that surprised her.

But biting her cheek, Tokio had smiled, and invited him to go with her, standing in the neatly-kempt garden, wearing the rich, luxurious kimono he'd bought her out of his salary, and not hers. After all, she reflected sadly, the mayor's wife was the class of people a samurai of his standing rubs shoulders with.

Not the housekeeper.

She laughed, but caught it in her sleeve.

Despite the falling mercury, there were still people outside, around the tables, simply standing, alone, watching the sky, engaged in conversation with friends or the woman at their side. Respectable, high-standing men, all of them. And yet, it was funny how so few of them were married.

Saito had been gone for an awfully long while. She wasn't even sure if they'd gone into the house, or if he'd suddenly left.

That seemed unlikely, though. The carriage was still outside the grounds, in plain view amid the others. _A horse-drawn carriage_... The thought made Tokio warm inside. Before she'd come to Kyoto, she'd never ridden in one before. Maybe on the driver's box with a friend who drove one, but only royalty _rode_ one.

A smooth, cool voice said beside her ear, "I believe you are with Mr. Fujita."

Tokio started violently. She spun around, the salutation awfully familiar.

Behind her, was a gentleman in a pinstriped business suit, hat tilted at a roguish angle, obviously having arrived just now. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. He obviously was not Reiji Hoshou, and something about him made Tokio delicately move away. She doubted he understood trust, except when he was manipulating it to his advantage.

He was looking at her, and he repeated what he said.

She didn't reply. She didn't know how to.

"You would be Miss Takagi, then?"

"Yes,"

"You live with Mr. Fujita, don't you?"

The blood was creeping up her face, and suddenly, she felt glad for the shadows the branches threw across her face; she knew very well where this was going.

"Mr. Fujita has been kind enough to share his roof and spare rooms with me."

The stranger nodded thoughtfully. "Yes; he does have an extraordinarily large house for a single man ...You wouldn't, I hope, mind enlightening me about the circumstances of that, would you? Mr. Fujita, as I recall him, likes his privacy a lot too."

She couldn't breathe for a passing moment; something hard had lodged itself in her throat. "I ... I work for him."

"I see," And the stranger smiled again. There was nothing friendly, or even frigidly polite about it. It was cruel, mocking, and his eyes slid down the bridge of his nose as he looked her, his chin tilted up at a haughty angle. "Yes, I do recall hearsay about Mr. Fujita having found himself a new housekeeper."

Tokio felt her fingers clenching inwards inside her sleeves.

He went on, "You are here to accompany Mr. Fujita, I presume?"

The words spilled out of her cottony throat. "I'm here on his invitation." She held his gaze for a hard moment, trembling inside, and excusing herself curtly, she pulled away from his presence, and walked away. The kimono swished around her ankles; she felt the stranger's cold, laughing eyes following her back, burning through her with their derisiveness.

* * *

There was only surprise in Saito's eyes, as he stood there on the porch of the mayor's house, about to light a cigarette when he saw Tokio, her face white, lips pressed together.

He didn't ask any questions. He simply said, "Do you want to go back?"

She didn't know how to reply. She wanted to run home to where her mother and sister were, not wanting a part of this anymore. But there would always be Mr. Hajime; if she left, so would he.

Out of consideration for others' opinion, if not her feelings.

"It's all right," he said quietly. "I don't mind leaving."

She couldn't see his eyes, shadowed by the dim light, only his mouth, expressionless, the burning cigarette held between two fingers, the other hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispered at last, hating how her voice came out, loving him for understanding.

Neither of them said a word as they sat in the carriage, the sound of the horses clopping on the gravelled road the only sound above their breathing. Saito stayed with her all night, the two of them sitting in the drawing room, their voices soft and hearts pounding. He seemed sorry to see her leave, even if it had only been to make supper.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note**: Yay! I finally made myself a perfunctory chapter planner, with at least one moderate-sized event for each chapter. Through that system, I can incorporate some amount of fluff or general breathing space from their dark, sunless, impossibly-unsure love lives. (After all, I intend to do something like sixteen chapters or so, and they need to be filled up somehow or the other.)

I've even got a pseudo-epilogue written out as well. But, the writing's getting harder here, so I'm really sorry if updates can't be regular. (Which is why I'm so sorry about being late.) So, I really ask your cooperation with this fic, and also a pinch of patience. I've botched up Saito largely in some of the previous chapters, and so I'm redoubling efforts to make his character even remotely resemble the guy I like so much from the anime.

As you can see, it's taking a bit of time.

**alexnyukiluvr**, it's actually your earnestness about this fic that makes me want to update faster, but it really is difficult if the subsequent chapters are easier to write than the next due chapter. Hope you forgive me for being this late.

And since romance isn't _at all_ my strong point in writing, what you say about this story is genuinely very kind. About it being "one of the best romance stories," official (is it?) or not, the award is flattering. I graciously accept its bestowment. Thanks so, _so_ much again! (And yes, I'm still reading "**Hajime and Tokio**"— I agree with you.)

**no one really**, either you didn't get it, or I'm the blind one who only saw the surface, but I get this superficial feeling that you didn't see the point of **Chapter Seven**: Tokio wasn't _hounded_ by that nameless fellow; it was just impressing to the reader (but also to me, that Tokio was not at par with Hajime, and she never would be, either.) But I'm glad you like this story.

**Shiro**, thank you for what you said. I tried to write the SaitoxTokio ship using faintly different plot devices, so I'm glad you like it. It's hardly what can be esteemed as literature, but thanks for calling it "simply fantastic."

**lionheart555**, thank you a lot.

**omasuoniwabanshi**, once more thank you for being wonderfully critical. The sleeve-gesture, well, it gets kind of hard to picture _now_, after that Tokio Perfect Woman equation; I keep thinking "Mary Sue" ... heh.

**Nette JP**, glad to know you like SaitoxTokio fanfic, _and_ mine too. Saito and Tokio are basically on the same thought wave: "I'm trying to ignore our mutual lust here," only _he_'_s_ in rabid denial and _she_'_s_ more successful.

Actually, it's quite funny how absolutely no one has said a word about Tokio being the housekeeper. Everyone keeps commenting on _every_ single aspect, save for the only thing that I was jumpy about: Tokio being demoted from lady to maid.

Also. The "romance" from the genre finally makes its appearance with this chapter and after, but I highly doubt it should make a difference to the rating.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

They were a blind man's hands running across her face, memorising her. His fingers ran over the lines of her mouth, the fine bone of the bridge of her nose, the closed lids of her eyes; his lips tracing every of her face.

He made her shudder, her skin prickle, her heart pound faster. This was what love felt like?

* * *

Slowly, achingly, Tokio's eyes opened, and she pushed herself up by one hand on the bed. The dream, real as the breeze blowing gently through the open window against her, was real.

The touch on her skin was frighteningly real, and she fell back on the bed again, squeezing her eyes closed. But the tears stung at them anyway. Dredging up memories she had never hoped to feel again.

His name was Tanaka, and his mother had mixed blood, bequeathing to him dark blue eyes that glittered. They had still glittered, the survivors had told her, when he stood there, his sword raised, the enemy in a tight circle around him, before he died.

She'd gone into deep, muted shock almost after they told her the news. Apparently, he'd died trying to save his family, and she wasted days and nights in her room, face pressed into the bedclothes to muffle her tears. Two days before her sister could cajole her out of it; two days of horror and grief after which she emerged bedraggled and half-starved, ashamed almost to face her mother and father who enveloped in her in their arms.

But she hadn't cried after those two days, and she hadn't cried since. She hadn't talked about it with anyone, and the only scar it left was the broken, jagged hole in her that made her cave in to emotion more than she'd liked during war, and after.

Convinced herself that she'd moved on, forgotten.

She had been wrong.

Distantly, a bird cooed, and out the window, she could see it on the sill, its tiny head turned towards her, the beak parted, the intelligent, gold-encircled eye looking at her.

Mr. Hajime...

She scrambled to her feet, and pulling her hair into a knot that fell apart in minutes and had to be redone, she freshened herself as best as possible, making herself presentable and viewable, and hurried to make breakfast.

To her surprise, Saito was already awake by the time she was up, and he was in the drawing room, reading the paper in the rounded cane chair. He looked up briefly, his eyes touching on the dishevelled hair, and he nodded.

"Rough morning, I see. Did the bed wake you up by engaging you in a wrestling match?"

She blushed, and laughed both at the same time, unused to hearing him crack jokes not made in black taste. "What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Hajime?"

"Anything," he muttered, the newspaper claiming him again. "They want me back at their headquarters at another shot at assessing me for duty." He snorted, the deep-rooted disgust visible in the tiny gesture.

"Awful, aren't they?" she said. She suddenly remembered the night at the mayor's party, and her blood felt warmer. "Mr. Hajime — if you wouldn't mind my asking,"

"Hn?"

"Why do you have three bedrooms in your house? I understand you leave one for yourself, one for me, and one for Mr. Okita when he comes, but originally, why did you have three?"

She knew that none of his previous housekeepers had lived with him. She was the only exception, but she couldn't bring herself to say that, or even ask why he'd been letting her stay for so long.

The newspaper lowered itself. Saito's eyes were dark.

"The house originally wasn't mine." His voice was bland and cool. Not even the last trace of emotion. "It was a friend's, who had a family and daughter. He left a spare bedroom for me when I came to stay in Kyoto. He wasn't involved in the war, and I'd met him outside. There were a bunch of people who wanted to get at me, and they used him, torching him, his wife and daughter. I tried to save them, but I couldn't. He left his house to me, and I've repaired this place as best as I can."

He paused, looking at her. She didn't move. An uncomfortable silence had settled over them.

"Does it answer your question, Tokio?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I'll make breakfast, Mr. Hajime."

"Thank you."

* * *

When they had not been looking, and Tokio occupied, it had snowed outside. There was a light drizzle, and the porch was covered with clumps of white, the trees indiscernible and the ground partly hidden.

Leaning out of the open doorway, she stared out at the sky, trying to tell if it would rain any further, and when satisfied, she brought out a broom and an old, previously-useless sack that had once carried rice, to sweep off the snow before it could melt and flood the yard.

"G'morning, Miss Takagi," greeted a slightly husky voice, and she looked up to see a head bobbing above the fence, and strongly muscled, broad shoulders.

"Oh, Mr. Koshi," Tokio dropped the broom, and walked down to meet him, snatching the hem of her kimono away from the snow. She hadn't expected to see him out so late, and she told him as much, with a question as to why he wasn't yet at the school.

Bewilderment crossed Koshi's bony features. "Late?" he repeated worriedly. "Are you sure, Miss Takagi? It was only eight-thirty when I left the house. Are my watches keeping slow time?"

And it was only then that she remembered Mr. Hajime had left early.

She apologised profusely to the kendo instructor, a nice enough man, who had a bad tendency to take things seriously. Mr. Koshi only smiled and laughed good-naturedly, shook Tokio's hand over the fence, and continued on his way.

Mr. Koshi was a nice man. He'd once offered to teach her kendo, but she'd refused. She picked up the broom again, and set down to work.

* * *

Saito smoked as he leaned against the back wall of the police station. It was the closing of the afternoon, and he was angry as the gears of his mind turned. His superiors who overruled had put him in charge of the escaped Takamura— the same disgusting drug-dealer with whose case Chou had betrayed him. Bastard.

"_I don_'_t want you to get us wrong_, _Mr_. _Saito_, _but much as we want to return your badge and office_, _we do not have a choice_. _Circumstances_, _and not your character_,_ weigh against you_."

He snorted under his breath. Oh, the circumstances told against him quite loudly, oh, most definitely. But in truth, these men were afraid. Afraid of him without knowing why.

* * *

Tokio watched the sky, knowing Mr. Hajime would not be back for another hour, or maybe two. It was still cold, and she started a small fire in the grate. Sitting in the rounded wicker chair, basking in the face of the fire, she was drawing again, her fingers making the charcoal mould images that spilled from the empty cup of her mind.

She didn't see what she was drawing, just the imprinted face of a man. She didn't hear the sound of the charcoal grazing softly the surface of the sheet of paper; didn't hear the _shoji_ screen sliding open in its wooden groove; the sound of bare feet moving on the polished floor.

But it would be a lie to say she didn't feel the air move, feel the warmth of the fire on her skin dip, the sickening sensation in her chest as the hands swooped down, the fingers grabbing her, drawing her lips to her teeth so she couldn't bite, couldn't scream.

* * *

"G'night, Okita."

Saito stood up, dropping the remnant of the cigarette into the wicker bin that stood in a corner of the house. Okita Souji nodded, his eyes meeting Saito. "It was good talking again."

"No problem, Hajime. Anytime."

"Hardly." He offered a crooked grin, and pulled on his gloves and jacket, picking up his sword. "But I should leave— Tokio might like me home early. Are you sure you don't want to drop by?"

"Thanks, but no." Okita followed Saito out of the house. "I've got a stockload of things to do. Like making sure they accept me for a job, for one. Ouch, it's freezing here—" His words were swallowed by a violent cough.

Saito, who'd been staring emptily at the gate, whipped around. His handkerchief, large and cream-coloured, his initials unembroidered, was out of his hand, as Okita held it, pressed to his mouth.

His coughs gradually subsided. He lowered the handkerchief, glanced at it, and folded it into a pocket. "You don't mind if I keep it, Hajime?"

Saito's eyes immediately narrowed. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded, his voice low. "I thought the doctors said it was over. The danger was gone."

Okita smiled weakly. "It's consumption, Saito. It won't go ... I'll guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."

* * *

Light was flickering through the paper screen of the door, when Saito reached home, his mind forcibly pushed into a state of calm. He drew open the door in a quick, fluid motion, and went in, taking off his shoes and jacket.

And there was the odd thing— he could hear movement in the drawing room.

As if in corollary, there was the acrid smell of unfamiliarity and fear in the air. His heartbeat quickened. _Tokio_.

His hand gripped his sword very tightly, thumbing it out of the narrow scabbard. His feet treaded as lightly as they would fall, and he inched further into the house. Now the smell of fear was more palpable, mixed with a heightened smell of the fire burning in the grate.

Sliding stealthily in his own house, back close against the walls, Saito could finally see what was wrong. His mouth went dry.

* * *

Whoever he was, he was spry and wiry, lanky and tall, and his face was covered by a strip of cloth and large bangs. He was strong too, for his looks, and as furiously as Tokio struggled against his grip, her shaky breath coming out in small exhalations which were icy-cold against her skin, he held her like a cobra.

And his hands ... Shudders raked her as she twisted and kicked in his handcuffing hold. He refused to let go, his fingers pressing into her wrist as he thrust her right hand— straight into the fire.

Tears almost blinded Tokio as she flailed and thrashed desperately— _why wouldn_'_t he let go_? The warmth grew into hotness as the light of the flames danced on the back of her hand. Closer and closer...

Her screams came out unheard, muffled, unintelligible and frightened. _Hajime_! she cried, the only word she knew anymore in her terror.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**: **Nette JP**, wow, I know it feels like to say a lot in a tsunami of spontaneity, but seriously, I'm very flattered. Glad to know you liked the last chapter.

No, Tokio's hand being burnt (or nearly so) has nothing to do with the people who owned the house. That part was just to explain away the three bedrooms I'd given the story so thoughtlessly.

_Why_ Tokio was attacked is explained in subsequent chapters, (this one just deals with Saito to the rescue! and what happens in the heat of that.)

**omasuoniwabanshi**, thank you! Honest, I wasn't trying to make Saito protective, even if I agree I adore that nice-guy side of him.

**triniti71**, I promise I won't abandon "Unending Winter." I rarely drop any of my fics, and that's only the unpublished ones. I'm glad you like the story, and since there are just so many HajimexTokio fanfics (many better than this one) the first way I thought to make this one original was to introduce Tokio as Saito's maid.

**snowflaker**, thanks for the compliment. Really sweet of you. I hope you like the update.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Every sound in the world exploded in his ears until there was silence, until he was deaf. And then there was only the tearing roar of fury, and the glint of metal in the flames of the fire.

A thud as the intruder went flying through the air, landing hard on the floor, bleeding with a long gash. A thump as Tokio collapsed on her knees, her hands grabbing the arm of the chair in an attempt to push herself to her feet.

Even now, all her hoarse voice could whisper was her scream, "Somebody, please! help me..." All she could see was Saito Hajime, tall, taller than her, tall as the sky, towering beside her, his sword drawn the blade longer than his arm. His body was pulled into a Gatotsu stance, so great was his rage, the muscles visible through the black shirt underneath, sculpting his back.

His jacket ensconced her once more, seeping warmth into her cold, cold body. She clutched the starched material in her fists, her eyes glassy, as she remained, half-crouching, half-standing, unable to move.

"So you thought a piece of filth like you could walk into my house, did you?"

Saito's voice seemed to burst in her ears.

His cold, narrowed eyes traced every flinch of Tokio's attacker. The force of his attack had slammed the intruder into the wall, and he slumped to the ground, his hands clasped around the wound through his leg. In one moment of pounding anger, Saito had crippled the man.

Now he looked forward to shattering, or near-shattering, more than the fellow's femur bone.

The strip of black cloth shrouding his features had fallen off, and Saito could now fully see that it was a boy. Hovering in his twenties, his eyes glowering with silent hate above that youthful face twisted by acne.

Hardly a boy. A killer.

The taste in Saito's mouth soured.

"_Get up_."

The hate deepened.

"Goddamnyou, get _up_," The words hissed like acid as they left his throat. "You were quite eager to pick a brawl in here, weren't you? Unfortunately, the lady will have to take a rain check, and I'm her replacement. Now get to your feet."

No response. The boy's lips moved, mouthing a curse.

The flames in Saito's blood rose.

"I know you're armed, you bastard. I want you to take that _kodachi_ out of the sheath and fight me. I'm not going to spare your life, but at least I'll think of you enough to let you die with some scrap of honour.

"On your feet, or you _die_."

The steel blade glinted again. Silver sliced the air. No one saw Saito's feet leave the ground, but he was in the air, a moving blur. The hilt of the sword glimpsed the world, and the blade speared the air where the boy had been.

It hit the wooden wall with a dull sound, and Saito withdrew it too fast for it to sink into the wall. He swivelled around, a second too late to catch the boy before he scrambled up, balancing shakily, the kodachi finally drawn.

He had twin blades, grasped tightly in his hands. So tight that his knuckles gleamed a bloodless white.

"You bastard," he spat.

Saito laughed. But it was a horrible kind of laugh, filled with mockery, anger, misery and cruelty. "You only incite me more."

And he flew at the boy, sword-tip aimed.

A metallic screech. The boy had flung up his arms in a tight X-like cross, his blades blocking Saito's in a scissor-like grip. He hurled his weight into those arms of steel and that hilt of wood, trying to push his opponent back, but Saito leapt away, knowing opposing the force would only scar the sword.

Interlude. Pounding silence. Blood roaring in their ears.

The air shifted again, as Saito attacked, once more diving for the boy. But the killer was quick and fast. He flung the _kodachi_ twins into a cross, once more trapping the blade Saito's katana.

The boy was looking up at Saito; he was blank-faced. So empty. But he was wolfish; Saito could read it in the shallow, quick breaths that he drew in and threw out.

Neither moved. Caged. Ensconced in eternity; frozen by frost.

And then the glass broke.

No one saw it. No one thought the other had moved.

But Saito's left leg lifted, folding back, drawing near-invisible creases in the navy blue material of his trousers. A flash of skin, and his bare foot sliced sideways through the air, lashing out— and connected hard and heavy above the crushing wound he'd inflicted in the boy.

Who reacted in instinct, as the breath barrelled out of his chest as he was thrown back.

He brought down his arms in a fierce motion— tearing down the steel X-cross so that it would cut through Saito's leg.

No one saw anything. It happened all at once. In one moment-second.

He was half a second too late. Saito threw himself to the floor, landing on his back. One leg swept out of the way, and the other swept the boy off the ground by his feet.

The boy fell, being flung away by impact from. He fell amid the neatly placed pair of Saito's shoes, scattering them. He fell on his back, like a beetle, and because of his injury, like that beetle, he couldn't get up.

Saito was quick to get on his feet. He descended the step, and walked towards where the boy lay. His sword was drawn, glinting in the moonlight.

Before he could blink, he leaped.

He leaped back, the warm sensation of flowing blood and the acute sting of pain against his skin. He didn't look down; there was a rip in his trousers, where a long, _deep_ vertical cut broke his defence.

The boy's _kodachi_ had finally touched him.

The boy had climbed to his feet by now, and he was almost out the door, gripping the doorframe to steady himself as he stood. He was shaking.

"Oh, so you're leaving, then?" Saito's voice was just as blank. "Good. I don't like scum. My housekeeper has a hard enough time cleaning them out." He advanced as he spoke. "But, really. You can't be so perfunctory. Underground denizens, like you, of our country, aren't always allowed to walk away like that."

The boy was not breathing evenly. He'd been hit so violently, that he was finding it difficult to breathe cleanly.

"Tell me this, boy— who sent you?"

He wondered idly what kind of insult or expletive the boy would throw.

Saito had stopped walking. His strength pooled in one leg, those bones, because the pain in the other leg was gradually strengthening, hardening. A throbbing sensation pulsated in his head. He _despised_ this.

"I shall tell you _nothing_, you bastard! ...You, who call yourself a samurai, are _nothing_! You are old, foolish, _deluded_! And yet you call to yourself the right to demand answers to selfish questions of me!"

The migraine in Saito's head doubled instantly.

His patience broke.

_Katana_ aimed, he lunged for the boy who was thrown off his feet into the front yard. The Gatotsu butchered him smoothly.

* * *

The corpse looked like a grisly epithet on the evening. Saito lowered his sword, flicking it to jerk off the blood. Using a piece of cloth, he brought it down the blade, cleaning it, and in one wide motion, sheathed it into the scabbard.

He cast one last glance at the moon, and went inside, placing the sword on the rack as he did. The fire was still crackling in the drawing room, and Tokio was sitting in the cushioned cane chair. She was wearing his jacket, the shoulders slipping above her elbows.

She was shaking, and she stood up at the sight of him. "Mr. Hajime,"

He stood a yard away from her, feeling empty. The burning fire that had upheld him had been extinguished with that last twist of his sword. Now what? Tokio was safe. What would he do? What was he supposed to?

"Are you all right?" he asked, the stupidity of the question covered up by the tone. "Unharmed?"

She took a shaky step forward. Her knees were trembling through her kimono. Her eyes, large and dark, were wide and horrified. "You're covered in blood."

He glanced down at himself. The chest of his shirt was splattered, and the dark blue trousers were stained with flecks of blood. "I'll be fine. You're my primary concern now."

She stepped towards him again, but she shook so much that she'd collapse. But she didn't. Only watching her feet. One before the other. And she stopped. Saito's arms were around her, holding her from behind so that she could stand on both feet again, walk without falling.

"Tell me where you want to go," he whispered, his voice breathless and husky. "Tell me where you want to go, Tokio, and I'll take you."

She turned around, twisting her head, and her hair brushed against his cheek. Her eyes only looked at him now. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, Hajime."

He smiled. It was a small smile, but there was something alight in those whiskey-coloured eyes. "_Aa_. _Hajime_."

And his head dipped towards her, his lips finding hers in the midst of a kiss. Her hands went around him, her lips never leaving him, and eternity trapped them in a bejewelled glass box until the glass shattered. Saito moved his head away, his arms still holding her.

"Tokio,"

Inside, he felt horrified to have ever acted selfishly enough to take advantage of a frightened woman. But she only leaned her head on his chest, her breathing slowly falling into cadence with the beat of his heart.

"I owe you more than my life, Hajime; I owe you my hands."

Gently, he felt himself guiding her to the furniture, the two-seater padded couch. He lowered her into it, following her, his hand still entwined with hers.

Her skin was hot. Warm from the fire. His fingers rubbed the back of her hand, a slow, sculpting motion over and over again, as if he could ease away her fear— do the one thing he could never do for her.

Tokio's eyes slowly closed. She felt Tanaka's fingers caress the back of her hand, but it wasn't him. Tanaka was dead. Saito was alive, and in a plunging moment of realization, she loved Hajime for it.

And he kissed her again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note**: And Saito faces the music ... though, not just to one thing alone.

**Nette JP**, gee, thanks. It's a nice feeling to know you're such an enthusiast. You really made be feel awful for not writing fast enough. (And that is one fool-proof method to start my writing gears again.)

**omasuoniwabanshi**, thanks so much for what you said, once more. Yeah, I'm very sorry it took him so long to finally kiss her— the big jackass.

**alexnyukiluvr**, I missed you. You're another person who consistently makes me get off the couch and leave the TV remote alone, and stop leaving Saito and Tokio in inopportune moments. I know this chapter doesn't make up for the wait, but I hope you like it.

**bringer-of-death-and-sorrow**, I'm old-fashioned when it comes to stuff like this, and at my age, I've decided not to go into physical romance. The platonic and intellectual relationships are really what I like to read, so, yeah, it reflects in what I write. Thanks very much, though. I'm really glad you like my fic.

**Venus Smurf**, thank you. It's beautiful compliment, and I hope I'll not disappoint. Btw, I really like your _nom de plume_. (Wasn't "The Smurfs" a cartoon?)

**Buffalocatz**, thanks for dropping off a review. I'm flattered really that you'd really take time off to read my story. (Especially since you sound pretty busy!) I definitely appreciate your vote of confidence, too— thanks for saying it's "a really nice twist on the relationship."

**Sakura Trees**, thank you! I start breaking out into a guilty sweat when people say stuff like that, because it's definitely sweet of you to actually have faith in Miss Wakes, Sleeps, Randomly Remembers to Update.

**Chapter Ten**

The overly-bright sunlight fell on Saito's skin, on his exposed forearms where his sleeves had been rolled up.

It was six-thirty in the morning, and wearing a new pair of his uniform's trousers and a white shirt, Saito was out in the front yard, trying to do some cleaning. Heavy cleaning.

Since it was far too early in the morning, the cul-de-sac outside the fence was deserted, save a street cat curled up tightly at the base of the lamppost. Their only neighbour, Koshi, the half-mad, thoroughly eccentric fool, didn't get up until an hour later, for which Saito was extremely thankful.

It was a gruelling and merciless task to dispose of a corpse in the raw, inhuman hours of the morning, when both cold and sun attacked you without pity. He still limped with the wound cutting his leg. Saito hefted the dead boy from the ground, shifting him into a better position so that he could drag the corpse across the yard.

A long, crimson stain smeared the ground, tracing a path from the wooden ramp engirdling the house, to the gate. Saito did not like to touch this piece of human flesh, the very feeling of the icy limbs making his skin crawl. It was a difficult job, finding the gate as he was walking backwards, but one hefty kick opened the door, simultaneously shooting pain up the injured, unused leg.

Saito cursed, and wheeling around, he bodily tossed the boy into the street.

When he went back into the house, Tokio was still asleep. She was curled up lightly, her hair loose and splaying about her face, her fingers clutching the sheets, as she slept under the covers of Saito's _futon_.

She looked beautiful, but dishevelled.

Crouching gingerly down beside her, Saito reached out a hand to brush back her hair. But he froze close to her face, so close his fingertips could nearly touch her cheek.

He withdrew his hand, and standing up, he went back out.

Tokio woke up to the smell of burnt cooking oil, and immediately she pushed herself up on her elbows, trying to grasp what the smell of fire could mean, until dread and fear ran down her throat, almost choking her again.

Last night...

But she tried to will her breath to feel less cold. Mr. Hajime had been there. But then she realized, she didn't feel any warmer. The covers of the _futon_ had slipped off her shoulders, and she was sitting up in only a flimsy _yukata_, open to the winter.

This was not ... her room. Then she saw the crumpled, navy, officer's jacket near her, and she scrambled out, and quickly pulled in on. Heat flooded her; Hajime's jacket always had that inherent gift.

_The smell of oil_...

It must be the kitchen.

Five minutes later, almost half-afraid to find out, she cautiously stuck her head past the doorframe.

Saito was in the kitchen, his back turned with a plain, stained apron tied around him, and he was busy frying something in a pan. The smell of burnt oil was even stronger this close, and Tokio didn't know if she should giggle or grimace.

"Um, Mr. Hajime?"

With speed she'd never seen before, he turned around completely, and immediately, Tokio had to snort back a laugh because he looked ridiculous. But there were his tiger-eyes glaring at her to do just that.

"Breakfast, Mr. Hajime?"

He snorted, and turned back to the pan on the fire. "This is only because you overslept."

"It's only seven o' clock," she reminded him blandly. "And it's Saturday. You _never_ eat before eight on Saturdays."

He was momentarily stumped in his excuse before he immediately recovered. "Well, I've changed my schedule, as is extremely apparent, Tokio."

"What're you making?"

"Poached eggs."

She really grimaced now. It sounded like an awful, typically _Western-awful_ recipe. "Um, what is it, Mr. Hajime?"

But he only waved a wooden spoon at her, turning back to the fire, in a silent, impatient gesture for her to leave the food in peace. He was acting like nothing had ever happened, and some part of Tokio was immeasurably grateful.

She backed out of the kitchen, in favour of sitting on the front porch. As memories and details crept back to her, it slowly ingrained itself that she'd Hajime murder another man. Deep inside, she thought the man had not deserved the brutality at Hajime's hands, but when she looked down at her hands, the fingertips were raw and red and hurt even at touch.

The remorseless hatred coursed through her, even if it was unjustified.

Mr. Hajime was humming in the kitchen. He often did that if he was in a good mood, and he was smoking as well— the well-remembered smell of cigarette smoke found her as she slid the shoji open, and stepped outside.

It was still early, and the winter breeze ruffled her hair, as she leaned back against the wall. And then she saw it.

There were bloodstains in the yard. On the wood she was standing on— under her feet.

She paled.

And then it made her realize there was no corpse.

_Mr_. _Hajime_.

He must have cleaned everything up for her.

Her heart pulsed warmly in her chest.

"_Fujita!_" someone called. "Inspector Fujita."

Saito halted on the stairs of the police station, turning around on his way to his office. His fingers flew to the brim of the felt hat, slowly taking it off. "Commissioner," he intoned with the right degree of respect. "Can I help you?"

The man was standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the banister, peering up Saito with a mild expression on his face. "Come down here a second, will you, Fujita? Let's have a word in private."

"Private" referred to the Commissioner's office, seated on one side of the big desk, suspiciously like one who is going to be interrogated. Saito studied the Commissioner softly, trying to look casual. The other man didn't seem inclined to speak, and since Saito thought of him as one of the few tolerable people left in the world, he leaned back in the chair, and lit a cigarette.

"So, what happened? It's nice building up the tension in here—" he exhaled a feather of smoke "— but I'm curious."

The Commissioner laughed lightly. "Well, something happened that might spark your interest."

"I don't have a badge anymore. Who says I'll be interested?"

"Look at it from my angle, then, Fujita: has that scar healed?"

"Which scar?"

"The fresh one on the torso. The drug dealer, Takamura. The one that Chou Sawagejo tipped you off about."

"Yeah. He escaped from armed security, while being transported to some fortified lock-up. I read the papers; so, what about him?" He deftly ignored the question. Not the obvious one. The underlying one, of course.

"He's in town. One of our informants left a note about it on the desk."

"I see. Does this mean he has another grudge against me?"

"Maybe. Not sure, but probably so. That's not what I wanted a word about."

"Oh?"

Saito leaned forward in the chair. He knew what this was leading to.

"A corpse was found near your house, Fujita. Care to tell me why you murdered a man? ... No excuses, Fujita, I'm in earnest.

A snort. "He was hardly a man. And he broke into my house, and attacked my housekeeper. He tried to burn the flesh off her hands, and he attacked me. He was very much armed."

"Hm. I figured that very last bit, Fujita. But you _murdered_ him?"

"Self-defence. On behalf of an unarmed woman."

The Commissioner noted evenly how Inspector Fujita was showing absolutely no remorse, or rather, no emotion. "Dammit, I understand that as well as you, Fujita," he snapped coolly, "but I don't at all see a reason why you murdered a man in your own home, in front of that girl, Tokio."

Saito had gone back to leaning in the chair. He crushed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray, watching the angry glint behind the Commissioner's eyes. Before he lit a fresh one, he said very simply,

"You just told me, Commissioner: _no excuses_."

Saito exhaled softly as he walked through the front gate of his house to find Tokio engaged in a few words with the neighbour, Mr. Koshi. The man was still in the clothes he wore to work, and the _bokken_ hung at his side.

"Mr. Hajime!" Tokio waved a greeting at him, beaming cheerily. He returned her greeting lazily without feeling self-conscious in the least. If nothing, open display of feeling, was his only way of apologising to her for what he had found on Christmas night.

"Evening, Saito," greeted Koshi, extending a hand.

"Mr. Koshi and I have been talking, Mr. Hajime,"

But he wasn't listening. Relief was seeping into him too fast to control. She was safe ... She'd been so stubborn, insisting that he should go back to work ... Unfounded thoughts ... _She was safe_.

It was all that mattered.

She was safe.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note**: Heartfelt gratitude must go to **omasuoniwabanshi** for pointing out the slip-up with the poached eggs in the most tactful way possible.

**Sakura Trees**, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence! More romance coming up on a silver platter, don't worry.

**Buffalocatz**, hey, thanks for another great review. "Ain't love grand?"— true, but appreciation is grander!! I'm halfway on my way to heaven that you liked the "little things" of the chapter. More love is in the air, now that St. Valentine's ghost back again in the year— Saito and Tokio are definitely having an interesting time. And I definitely am making a conscious effort to add in what you wanted to see, everywhere I get an opening. (I'm not as lazy as you may think.)

**nannon**, ooh, thanks. Hope you keep reading.

**omasuoniwabanshi**, thanks for the extra mile you went to make sure I got the review. Reading it made my day— even with the poached eggs. ::grins goofily::

**reader**, if you liked this fic so far, I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride. A lot is on its way, and I truly hope it entertains you.

I'm not very sure if a cigarette lighter was invented at the time of speaking, but let's just ignore that for the sake of effect, please? I promise it'll go home by bedtime.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Souji Okita closed his eyes as he sat on the woven tatami mat in front of the fireplace. The flames flickered, reflected in his face, in his hair, on his closed eyelids.

He had not lied when he had told Saito he needed to be accepted for a job. The Meiji was an era of peace, but the unemployed still need their bread to eat. The past is not enough to feed on.

Over the last half-hour, he'd finished writing three different applications, and turning down one that involved manual labour, on grounds of health and physical height. He would have liked to teach, perhaps Literature, or History, but without experience, there was no point in being optimistic.

Perhaps _hopeful_ would do, and he smiled.

* * *

Saito closed his eyes, wondering if the nightmare would break and he could slip into reality once more.

Tokio sat opposite him, away from the fire, in her favourite lumpy sofa, once more bundled in the afghan. She was looking at him with widened eyes.

"So," she said tentatively, "what do you think?"

"I think," he said slowly, not opening his eyes, "that I'm dreaming. This very horrible dream."

"It's only kendo lessons," she protested. "And I'll only be doing it in my own time, Mr. Hajime."

A hand reached up to rub his eyes. "Exactly. I've no right to stop you, girl, even if I want to. But _kendo_?"

"I thought it was a good idea," she said defensively. "I don't want to be caught like that again." Her eyes clouded. "... I could've lost my hands."

Saito debated saying anything; it wasn't his business, but he'd made her his concern. "If someone wants to kill you, Tokio, not all the kendo lessons in the world, _nothing_, can stop him."

He regretted it. Opposite him, Tokio stiffened. She raised her head, and her chin lifted. "Are you saying, Mr. Saito, that I only need _you_ save me, because nothing else can?"

"Watch your words, Tokio."

"I will not, Mr. Saito, if it'll make you think you can insult me and get away with it. What are you trying to say? That I can't take kendo lessons from Mr. Koshi, because it will mean you don't get to be the only one who has the power to protect me and my life?"

Saito's eyes opened. They were hard, crystal hard, and burning golden like the sun.

"I _told_ you to watch your words. And yes, I _am_ the only one who can protect your life— don't forget, _I'm_ the only one who has to act as your guardian in this city. _I'm_ the one who pays you, _I_ ensure you get a safe roof to sleep under and a bed to sleep in— and _I'm_ the one who saved you that night."

The silence exploded in their ears.

Tokio fell back into the arms of the chair. Saito closed his eyes again.

She said, the words grinding into powdered chalk in her mouth, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hajime. I apologise. For being rude." She hated to say it; it hurt her more than her pride, because whatever she felt for him, she couldn't deny what he'd said.

_He_ paid _her_.

Without him, she'd have no roof, no food, and no money to buy a roof, or food.

She would never think twice before asking his help; and she would _never_ be sincere when she apologised to him for having done nothing that was wrong.

"Forget it. You were out of line, but so was I. I shouldn't have become angry; forgive that."

_Yes_, she thought. _You won't even apologise for insulting me_. But inside, she let herself smile. She knew what even that small apology had cost him.

* * *

Things picked up into normalcy once more from there.

With the escape of Takamura, the very reason why the bureaucrats had stolen Saito's badge and authority, Inspector Fujita came alive once more. The Commissioner no longer became the only who called him by that designation, and officially being given back his position by the efforts of the same gentleman, Fujita was reassigned the case.

The bureaucrats had been furious because they hadn't found what they wanted. They wanted Makoto Shishio, and a man as dangerous as Takamura was not compensation enough. Perhaps that was why they had allowed Fujita as much liberty as to be able walk in and out of the police station, because except what they could say unofficially about Shishio, they really had no real reason to strip Inspector Fujita of his power.

But contrary now to the commissioner's understanding, Saito did not want, in the least, to be put after Takamura. He despised the thought of the drug lord, the organisation, the lackeys, and more importantly, and that short, baritone-voiced ugly man who'd drawn a gun at him, but now lay dead.

He worked with the spies and informants, a network that spread across Japan, and without Chou Sawagejo, it was difficult, because that man _was_ the underworld. There were unhelpful rumours, of course, that Chou was currently moving through the country, visiting city and village— collecting valuable swords. A venture that was either eccentric, mad, or demonically calculated.

Tokio fared better, being engaged in something she enjoyed and wanted, and Mr. Koshi was a good teacher, and wonderfully patient. He held classes at school thrice a week, and on the other three days, he was free to teach her.

When there is balance, there is contentment. When there is contentment, happiness learns to grow.

* * *

Evening had beset the sky when Saito raised his head to look out the window, the light dimming as it fell across his desk. When he last remembered, it had been quite light at four-thirty in the afternoon, and he stretched his fingers, dropping the stack of official reports he'd been proof-reading. A cramp was steadily throbbing behind his knuckles.

He glanced at the time, and it was past five-thirty. Perhaps it would not be too late to go home for the night.

_There was someone waiting for him_. The thought made him smile.

He picked up his jacket, his hat, and retrieved the sword from where it leant against the chair. He swept the reports into their boxes, depositing them near the file cabinet. Putting out the light, he closed the door to the office, descending the stairs.

There were still many people left that evening, mostly officers on duty, littering the lobby and front office, and Saito wove through them, emerging into the crisp, chilly night, the air sliding down his throat in an involuntary inhalation, making him cough.

His hand fished about in his pockets, and he brought out a cigarette and a box of matches. The heat of the pin-fire was enough for him, and he slowly walked back home.

At six o' clock, it started to snow.

Saito looked up in alarm, almost immediately cursing the sky. His hand shot into his pockets, but his handkerchief was not there. It was with Okita. The short little bastard had not thought to return the only other handkerchief he possessed.

A low growl emitted itself from his throat. The shivers were crawling up his spine. And then.

He sneezed explosively.

* * *

Tokio glanced at the time, on the big fob-watch kept on the table in Saito's room. In her arms were the bundled clothes that were to go into the laundry, and in her face, a worried frown. It was black outside the window, the panes dusted with falling snow. Hajime was supposed to be home by now. Her heart knotted in her chest.

The food was waiting on the table. Served hot, but it was running cold. She'd even set out warmed _sake_ and a fresh pack of cigarettes because she knew Hajime was fast running out. She felt a little foolish inside, but she didn't need to hope and pray for Hajime to notice. He'd want to know what the occasion was. Could she tell him?

That for once, in between the gratitude, it was not always obligation. That she genuinely liked him as a person and as a man?

* * *

A hand crept up to knead his temples, and Saito noted gloomily that his skin felt hot, despite the snow. It fell steadily outside, and he sat on the front porch of the half-empty Akabeko, watching the winter. He sneezed again, and pulled the jacket on tighter. He didn't intend to catch pneumonia from the fever that was surely to develop.

His weakness before cold and changing temperatures had always the bane of his pride.

A ridiculously poor immune system was Okita's department; he did not even have that excuse. He leaned a shoulder heavily against one of the tall beams holding up the extended roof of the porch, and closed his eyes. Even his eyelids felt hot. This was turning into a terrible evening.

_She'll be worried sick_.

Immediately, he decided he didn't like the thought, his hands brushing the snowflakes off his knee. To think of Tokio now ..._ Surely, you can't be that selfish, that you're going to stop thinking about the only woman who cares, just because it pains _you. If Saito could have scowled at himself, he would.

_What if she comes to the office_? The last time she'd come to deliver a letter, without even knowing who had been the sender. _This time not even Okita's going to be there_.

Dammit.

* * *

Sae, who had been running the establishment in Kyoto for fifteen capable years, was starting to get worried about the police officer out on the steps of the Akabeko. She did not allow gentlemen to simply lounge around the restaurant, but he had insisted. The way he was leaning against the pillar-beams made her wonder about his health, and the sudden paleness of his face, as reported by an entering customer, allayed none of her concerns.

At length, with a cup of boiling hot tea on a black lacquer tray, she carried to the officer, setting it down beside him. "Excuse me, sir, but you look like you can use a drink."

The man glanced up briefly, and then his the direction of his gaze slanted towards the falling snow again. "I have to disagree until you can tell me why."

Sae said bluntly, "Because you look like you're going to topple over with the greyness of your face."

Inwardly, he started. He did not feel as ill as he looked. But then again, the winter produced an undesirably exaggerated expression in him, and often, in the steaming heat of summer, he often looked like he'd run five miles, even if he had been sitting around behind the desk all day.

He picked up the tea cup, and took a small sip. He felt mildly burned to the bone.

* * *

There was only the shawl she had drawn around her shoulders that kept Tokio Takagi safe from the cold. She hardly felt it through her socks, and the sandals barely sounded on the ground as she walked. Quick and brisk. She had seen the time before she left, and Hajime was not at work. She hoped they would meet down the road, and then, they could return home together.

Her hand in his.

She let herself smile.

The snow had stopped falling, as she'd let herself out of the house, but the lingering sense of winter would not go away. Her hair tumbled about her, and she ran her hands through it. She did not care now that there had been no time to comb it, and the streets were mostly empty, with no one to stare.

The ground crunched under her feet, and the soft sound seems so loud in her ears, against the silence. _Funny, the city had never been this quiet before_, and it was like the world was silent to listen the sound of her heartbeat rise and fall, harder than it had ever done before.

Because Tokio didn't know where to go. Where to find him. Find Hajime.

* * *

He had been sipping at the tea, the cup scorching his palms through the gloves, the pain a distant point of focus. Saito watched the snow fall again with riveted attention. He had never seen before — so blind, so blind — how each flake was impossible to scrutinise — each flake was different they said, but that was a lie ... _They are all the same_...

A voice said at the back of his voice, deliberately taunting him because it knew he was sick, _Maybe it's just you who can't see_?

"Damn you, I _can_," he grunted, slurring. "Jus' shut the heller up..."

The tea was too hot, hot as the flames of Emma, ruling hell for eternity. To hot to drink. He never knew it had fallen from his hands a long time ago, staining the snow a damp brown at his feet.

His gloves had come off, too. (_I don't remember doing that_...) It was his bare hands pressed together that felt so hot, still stinging from when he'd held the cup. (_What cup_?)

Vaguely, from a mile away, he watched, rather _felt_, his hands fumble with his pockets, searching ... The steel casing of the lighter was cool to touch, like an electric shock snapping up him.

Cigarette ... _where the hell did I put them_? ... One hand played with the lighter. Flicking it open. Snapping close. A tinny sound he couldn't hear. Tossing it up. He made a drunken fumble to snatch it, but it fell with a muffled _clump_ into the snow.

He didn't see it fall. The _clump_ hadn't come from the lighter. He could feel the cold sensation of snow, of winter, pressing against his cheek. He couldn't see properly. All he could think was ... _Maybe his appearance really wasn't_ ... _so deceptive_...


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note**: I always thought the Akabeko's Edo mistress Tae and her sister Sae of Kyoto looked alike, so I've rather swapped Sae's unseen face for Tae's. (For some reason, writing the last chapter and this has filled me with an inexplicable desire to write a Tae-centric fic ... weird.)

**Buffalocatz**, thanks for dropping off another review. Yeah, "quiet" _does_ seem to sum up Tokio so far, so I'm glad you liked the fact she's waking up before she falls asleep. Glad you liked the cliffhanger; I should really incorporate more. They're fun to write.

**triniti71**, thanks for pointing out that Kyoto has a Shirobeko. What I used to get on the TV was called "Samurai X," dubbed in English through and through. While the essence and more was in tact, they didn't even call the Akabeko, the Akabeko, and hence the mistaken assumptions. Thanks for clearing it, though! Glad to see you like Tokio putting out her three-cents' worth— there'll certainly be more of it in the later chapters. Hajime's just blacked out in the snow, and started with a weak resistance to the cold. It just gets worse from there. ::grins::

**omasuoniwabanshi**, thanks for the amazing review. "Trouble in paradise"? — its not even started. (The two of them are going to be paying _hell_ to one another, wait and see.) I loved writing that conversation, and if I'm not flattering myself, it even vaguely resembles the Saito Hajime from the anime. Saito's illness was another favourite; it's a sort of pivot in the plot, actually, because I'd finally decided the story was rambling without direction for far too long. Tokio to the rescue? You'll find out.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

The wooden doors of the police station wedged open to hit Tokio with a gust of warm air. Immediately, she leapt up the front steps, in time to catch sight of a deputy sneaking outside for an unlicensed sip of liquor, and when she made her subtle-polite "_Excuse_ _me_?" he started, from the shiver that ran up his spine.

When he wheeled around to face Tokio, despite the shadows of the moon and the light spilling from inside the building, she saw the front of his coat had a slowly-spreading damp patch. He stuttered, "Can I help you, ma'am?"

"I'm looking for Inspector Fujita," she told him, one hand, slipping the shawl over her head to make a hood. "Is he still inside?"

"Ah, I don't know, ma'am. Would you like to come in while I check?"

She nodded, and he pushed the door open wider for the both of them, darting in as fast as a hunted squirrel, before she could catch a glimpse of his face to report him. She saw a blur shooting towards the stairs.

Nobody noticed her this time, the clock ticking on the wall. Okita wasn't here, like he had been the last time, standing in as a correspondent in the police station for Saito to pass a message to, about the drug lord Takamura. The clock hung on the wall, ticking the hours. Creeping past seven. The officers littered the floor, some immersed behind their desks, others starting to leave, many crossing the floor to exchange notes or a friendly chat.

She stood with her back resting against the door, ankles crossed, the toe of her sandal tapping the wooden floorboards.

Her officer returned a few more minutes later, shaking his head in apology. He said, a little hurriedly, "He's not in his office. He seems to have taken his sword, and someone says he saw Inspector Fujita leave quite a while ago." He seemed hurried, waiting for her to leave, and she obliged, the emptiness in the pit of her stomach, giving away to panic.

* * *

Awaking drowsily to the sound of a woman's murmuring voice, Saito blinked as he tried to look around. He felt like he'd knocked his head against something hard, or perhaps he'd fallen, because the queasiness rising up his throat wouldn't go away. 

Everything seemed so dark. _No, it was only that he couldn't see clearly_ ... There was a lantern flickering on the floor, near where he lay. He couldn't see the light, but he could sense its warmth against his skin.

Something was thrown over him ... A blanket? Why? The last sensation he remembered was heat. His forehead felt cool and damp. Someone was holding up his right arm, a wet cloth dabbing up and down the flesh and bone. Soft hands. He could feel their light touch.

Where was he?

Tokio tramped through the snow, each footprint leaving a clear, deep impression as she walked, the shoulders of her shawl dusted white with the last drizzle. Her hair was tied back now, held in place with the same comb, with its perfect disc, splashed colours and frozen sunset, that Hajime had given her a gift on Christmas morning.

She wished she knew where he was now, as she thought of the laid table, the steam rising and thinning rapidly in the winter. The fire was stoked out of the grate, and the whole house was going to be dark now. It would seem so lonely. Tokio swallowed.

A light was burning in the distance, and she smiled, the candle of hope relit inside her. _He was home_.

She walked faster, the cold nipping at her ankles as much as before, and she broke into a run towards the house, leaping up the steps. Her hands, in woollen gloves, were folded inside the large sleeves of her kimono, and she didn't ring the hanging bells in the doorway. She simply called out his name through the shoji, hoping he could hear her, not caring as her voice echoed in the air, echoing through the neighbourhood.

There was a crash inside, a _thump_, and a lot of swearing.

Then came the sound of feet padding down the floor, and the silhouette grew through the rice paper of the shoji, until it was the outline of the man, and she saw the outline of the man's hand reaching to draw open the door. "What the hell do—"

He cut himself off. "Miss _Takagi_?" There was something in her pale face that struck a chord of concern.

She bowed. "Good evening. May I come in? This is about Mr. Saito."

"Saito?" _The bastard_. Okita Souji's eyes widened and blinked. "Certainly. What about?" _If he's done anything, I'll flay him_ ... _Going after innocent girls under his roof_.

Tokio said quickly, trying to rush it and push it past her at the same time, "He's missing." The words, finally taking strength and form, twanged painfully in her chest, and this was the last place she knew where she might find help, so it hurt when Okita—

Threw back his head and laughed.

And it transformed into a painful coughing fit. He stumbled back, his fingers snatching out the handkerchief, as he buried his the lower part of his face in it, turning away from Tokio as he did, so as not to let her see the blood.

When it subsided, and he dared to turn around, he didn't say anything, because he was afraid that when he would open his mouth to explain the laugh, he would reflexively break out into fresh curses about the weather that was cracking his health again.

Tokio was looking at him with a mixture of that same concern, and curiosity. She reached out to touch the handkerchief, and he quickly stuffed it away, muttering something about germs. She said, her eyes on his hands, "That's Hajime's handkerchief. Has he been here recently?"

Okita noted in rapid succession: first, the question, and then, that she'd called him by his given name.

"He _had_ been. A few weeks ago. You said something about him being missing, Miss Takagi? What happened? Will you come inside?"

When he had her seated by the fire, and had served her warm tea, sitting opposite her to watch how the firelight played on the strands of dark hair spilling across the fabric of the shawl, he asked her about Saito again.

Immediately, she lifted the cup of tea he'd offered her to her lips, and hesitating, she told him. The fears that had been cementing themselves around her heart, suddenly made her feel cold even beside the fire, because she sound inexplicably worried, even in her own ears, like a fruit had fallen on her head as she dozed under the tree, and she leapt awake, screaming, _The sky is falling down_!

Okita didn't let that happen, pushing away the doubts both from himself, and from her. He didn't tell her how Saito had told him about the intruder in his house. Saito hadn't said a word that wasn't cold fact, but he had been afraid. For Tokio, certainly. Okita wondered, _Had Saito crossed the border between angry and stupid, and launched himself to find where the attacker had come from_?

It seemed far-fetched, and more importantly, it seemed unlikely. But Saito was an unlikely man.

And, he thought firmly, _I_ am thinking _stupidly_.

Saito was definitely somewhere. Was it to find Chou Sawagejo? To find that druglord? Or, was he just sitting at the back of a cosy restaurant, a bowl of hot soba before him on the table, lighting a cigarette to find respite from the day's utter exhaustion?

_No_, he thought immediately. He wouldn't do that. Not to Tokio. He leaned over, resting one hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, Miss Takagi. I'll find him for you."

* * *

The smell of sweet incense invaded him through his nostrils. The sticks were burning somewhere close to him, and he could a shadow of warmth. Saito couldn't stop the sensation of feeling so very cold. A blanket covered him, but he still didn't feel warm enough. The damp folded cloth on his forehead felt heavy, and his eyelids won't rise, although he felt very awake.

Where was he? At home? His faculties wouldn't work, no matter how much he forced them to. Was Tokio here? Was she the one taking care of him?

"Officer," a female voice said, loud enough to wake the dead. "You're stirring."

Fabric rustling near him. She knelt down at his bedside. No, it was not Tokio. His eyes opened this time.

A woman was bending down over him. Her dark brown hair fell in tendrils about her face, and she had a warm demeanour, closed eyes, and a mouth that was half-smiling. Vaguely, he recognised her as the woman who served him tea as he sat on the porch.

"Does that mean you're feeling any better in the slightest?"

Saito's features creased angrily into a scowl. "What does it look like?" he grunted. _She _the hell_ was not Tokio_.

* * *

With a vague suspicion that he had made a promise he knew not how to keep, Okita didn't know where to start searching for Saito. The city spanned before him like a web, some dusty corner of which was where Saito Hajime was waiting to be found.

He'd been everywhere he knew, and uneasiness was rising like bile up Okita's throat. The police station, the post office, the pubs, and the three alleyways where Saito met with spies under the employment of the police.

Tired on his feet, and no longer the same man he had once been, Okita stopped at the first eatery he could find. He was feeling uncommonly hungry, and his throat burned for water. The snow was falling again, and the chill made him shiver through his warm clothes.

Across the street, he hurried towards the establishment, tall and one-storied, with a sign hung on top that he couldn't read because of the clump of snow that had fallen over it and the roof. He didn't care.

Leaping on the porch, he slid door the open, and at once the proprietor — a woman with epicanthic eyes — appeared.

"I'm sorry," she said, and promptly Okita's stomach sank. "We don't have any vacancy inside right now, I'm afraid. If you wish to wait, that's all right, and I know we can settle you at a table in fifteen minutes." She smiled, a practiced smile, and Okita shook his head, stepping down, his sandal crunching on the snow.

_Fifteen minutes_ ... He certainly didn't think he could wait that long.

Thrown back on the street, Okita trudged through the snow, trying to find food to eat. He couldn't beg, not because of his pride, but because there was hardly anyone.

Across the street however, on the other pavement, squashed between a brightly-lit shop and someone else's house, was a small restaurant. He thought it might be so, because of whatever was visible of the placard hung by the doorway, it seemed to be a menu. It was so easy to miss, and yet head-splitting hunger seemed to bring a queer clarity.

Okita grinned, and ran for it. Five minutes later, he was comfortably settled inside with a bowl of hot soup with neatly chopped vegetables, spiced with a few old chilli seeds, and when he paid the bill and walked out again, the hotness of the soup was raw in his throat.

Perhaps otherwise he would have never seen it. Something glinting in the light of the lamp hung outside the Shirobeko on the opposite pavement. Something almost imperceptible in the snow.

Carefully crossing the street again, and gingerly picking it up, Okita saw what it was:

A cigarette lighter.

* * *

Under the shawl, Tokio's hands were trembling from the cold, and she pressed them together, walking as fast as she could. The streets were clearing because of the erratic weather, and it had stopped snowing so she left her rudimentary shelter, and resumed—

Resumed? She turned that word over in her mind, trying to make sense out of thinking something like that, but couldn't. Hajime was nowhere to be found, and only explicit, inexplicable stubbornness made her disbelieve herself. If a woman's place was in the kitchen, she would have been only too glad to stay and wait at home, where it was warm.

And edging into her mind, through her thoughts and wilful tenacity, was anger. She felt like she could hit Mr. Saito for doing something like this to her, forcing her into the streets like this.

It was neither playful, nor indulgent, and it was real anger, that made her stop trudging through the snow, and re-consider all things at once. She wondered if any of it was worth it?

What _if_ she found Mr. Hajime? What _would_ she do?

What sort of difference would it make to _him_?

To _her_, it would make a difference if she waited at home, because without even being hedonistic, she could tell herself she deserved the smallest comforts. She was neither obliged nor bound to be out in the cold, brave the horrid weather for a man who did not have the voice nor the courage to express his appreciation. _He_ did things out of obligation; she did them out of want.

Whatever she might have thought before, was slowly starting to dissipate.

So what if Saito Hajime had ever returned her affection, her feelings? He would never learn to express it. _She_ could not help what she felt, but _he_ could control what he did with himself. So could _she_.

And standing in the cold, back arched, a shawl wrapped around her, loose tendrils of her hair billowing in the wind, Tokio made one of the hardest decisions of her life.

* * *

"So. You've come to see the officer?"

Okita nodded mutely.

The mistress of the Shirobeko was not uncommonly pleased to see him again, and when she appeared on the porch, once one of the diners had doubled back on his way out and told her am unusually short gentleman was waiting impatiently to talk to her, her first reaction on seeing Okita, was:

"The fifteen minutes aren't over yet."

Okita's face had gone through the customary shades of indignation, before he rather haughtily replied he'd already eaten his fill, and he had the dissatisfaction of seeing a tinge of relief in Sae's face. She had a relatively new cook, who kept complaining about the overflow of diners, and threatened to give notice that very evening.

Then she understood there was only one other explanation for the existence of Okita Souji on the doorstep of her establishment.

Okita showed her the lighter he found on the snow. There were still not many people who used them, and said straightforwardly, "So, you _have_ had a diner smoking cigarettes here. He was dressed like a policeman, wasn't he?"

Sae picked up on the suspicious incongruency at once. "_Dressed_ like a policeman?" she repeated, her eyes narrowing instantly. "What do you mean by that? Is he not a real policeman?"

"Oh, no, no, no! Not at all! I wasn't implying anything shady about him, you have to believe me when I give my word!"

His nervousness excited her suspicion further, and it took a good five minutes for Okita to explain the situation, all the while deathly afraid news would reach Saito how his reputation was being potentially blackened.

"Well, if you want to know, he's ill," Sae was surrendering the information most doubtfully. "He looked terrible when he first arrived, and he seemed to have fallen over and collapsed in the snow outside. None of us are sure _when_ or _how_ it happened, but we just found him."

"What about a doctor?"

"What about one?"

The two of them on the porch swivelled around at the sound of a third voice.

A woman in a shawl was standing a few feet away, her face extremely pale. She repeated what she'd just said.

"Miss Takagi!"

Tokio glanced at Okita, and her eyes registered immeasurable gratitude. "I'm so glad I finally found you ... I was searching everywhere."

She didn't go any closer, knowing how she was to finding Mr. Hajime. She knew she was. Okita and the lady from the restaurant could only be talking about one man, and Tokio hated herself for coming thus far. She didn't want to be yanked towards Mr. Hajime each time he pulled at her heart-strings, but then again, love is exacting.

"How are you, Miss Takagi? ... I believe I've made good on that promise of mine to find Hajime."

"Thank you," and she told herself the gratitude was entirely for him, and for no one else. Least of all Mr. Hajime.

"I didn't have to call for a doctor," broke in Sae. "One of my diners is a doctor's assistant, and safely diagnosed your friend. He only had a case of food poisoning, nothing more serious. He'll certainly recover, and I can guarantee he'll be alright in a few days' time."

"That's all, then?"

"It is, miss. Would you like to go into see him? He's asleep in one of the back-rooms, but might be waking up."

Okita saw the flicker in Tokio's, before she slowly nodded.

* * *

A restless stirring inside his chest, and slowly, the flickering sensation beneath his closed eyes made him open them.

The incense had not burned out, or maybe they'd been replaced, but Saito could still smell them, and they told him nothing about the passage of time.

Somewhere, distantly, too far away, he heard a door open somewhere, and the padding of feet that came closer, and he realized with a jolt someone was in there with him. Everything was so muffled, he felt like he'd been drugged, and he dimly realized it when someone knelt down beside him.

There were shadows moving about — he refused to think of them as people; they were as intangible as shadows to him.

"Hajime?"

The voice sounded right beside him, making his insides start, because it was coloured with uncertainty and he'd never heard it address him without formality before, so simply calling him by his given name that it made them sound closer across space and time; an illusion, obviously, but one he suddenly treasured.

_Tokio_.

Her face appeared right above him, her smile a little blurred through his vision.

His throat struggled, and incoherently he tried to produce her name. "_T_ ... _ki_..."

She murmured, for perhaps only him to hear, "I'm right here." Slightly louder, smiling wider, she said: "And _you_ were telling me _I_ shouldn't take kendo lessons?"

As he would recount later, to his everlasting horror, one hand came up, curled up in a fist, and swung drunkenly at Tokio, who easily dodged, and he missed.

_Love is exacting and complicates things_.

**Anton** **Chekhov**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note**: Wow, it's an honour to see "Tokio's Decision" getting big caps— what an impact! Of course, it only gets better from there.

**omasuoniwabanshi**, thanks! The last bit was the first time someone ever said that, and I'm really glad you liked it. About Saito and Tokio, well, like you said yourself, "there's trouble in paradise." You can't just expect Saito to get away with insulting Tokio's pride, (not that _he_ isn't nettled by her friendly jibing); what's that suddenly apt cliché about "...Hear me roar." ! _And_ it's just the beginning ... Btw, the idea of the burglar was pretty funny— I could just picture Okita ransacking _Saito Hajime_'s house.

**Buffalocatz**, thanks for what you said. "Commit or quit" sums it pretty nicely, to be honest— better than the "do or die" motto of most SaitoxTokio fics, save honourable exceptions. Oh, yeah, Saito and Tokio are on the rocks for sure, and what's better than Okita to add some spice? ... No, I think I'll let you figure it all out by yourself. ::cackles evilly:: And just you wait, Okita Souji is going to shunt them so close together that he'll earn the rare and ludicrous title of "Super-Shunter" without breaking a sweat.

**triniti71**, hey, Okita's not IMPORTANT enough to die, if it makes you feel any better ... LOL, I'm kidding. This is Saito and Tokio's story, and Okita is a just a convenient and semi-important part of the plotline. But all the same, no guarantees ... you'll find out for yourself.

**Hala**, hi! Thanks for reading, and for braving the ridiculously slow updates of mine, too! Don't worry plenty of blood and tears and love coming up on a silver platter, and definitely glad you like this story.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Saito woke up to an uncomfortably stifling feeling in his chest, and for a moment, he clutched at his heart, fumblingly shoving off the blankets and covers of the futon— because he couldn't breathe.

His eyes had flown open, but he was drowning, dizziness choking him and he couldn't see.

And then— it disappeared.

He sat up properly, kneading his temples, and he realized the door to his room was closed, the windows were shut and darkened, and there was such dingy dimness he'd nearly suffocated.

Irritated by Tokio's rather stupid well-meaningness, he got up and set about giving himself some air to breathe. His knees were unsteady when he first stood up, but he grabbed a wall and tried to compose himself, and pushed open the windows.

The cool morning breeze flooded in, up his nose, his throat, filling him from inside so suddenly that his head nearly swam again, and he slid back into the futon again. Just because he had been shaken awake, didn't mean he couldn't very well go right back to sleep.

* * *

The two previous nights had never seemed to end, and getting Saito home had been difficult, and an ordeal. Tokio could do little but prepare his bed so that he could lie down comfortably somewhere, and even that had been near impossible, her head bursting from within as she went home ahead of the others. Constantly, she was plagued by images of what Hajime had become.

His clarity and consciousness at the Shirobeko had been passing, and it gave way to delirium. It had been a wild fever, and she had gone to every pharmacy that had not yet closed, buying the medicine.

Saito never seemed to wake up properly. His eyes would fly open, and he would cry out incoherently, but nothing he said seemed to reassure Tokio. She didn't sleep that night, and she didn't rest until the next, when his illness finally started to subside and he drifted into calm oblivion. Watching over him with a single-mindedness that made her forget everything and everyone else, Tokio didn't ever realize how _she_ had been exhausted of everything.

As Hajime's eyes closed, so did hers, and she fell asleep against the wall, as if Hajime's peace had been all that she'd strived to stay awake for.

* * *

Perhaps that was why neither of them noticed the presence of a third ghost in the house.

A corporeal ghost floating from room to room, making sure there were bucket of a water and damp cloths, medicine were ground, ready to administered, food was waiting warm, no matter how long it had been since it had been first taken off the fire.

And that ghost stood in the doorway of Saito's bedroom, impassively gazing at the still forms of the invalid and his keeper, wondering if it was all right to finally forgive the former.

Two days after they'd found Saito in the snow, Tokio came to the dining room to find breakfast laid out for her. She went out into the drawing room, and there was Okita Souji admiring some charcoal sketches she had carelessly left over there. In a rush, she was immensely grateful.

"Mr. Okita," she called out softly.

He gave a theatrical jerk, dropped the pictures and sheepishly turned with a great show of guiltiness. "Eh ... Hello, good morning, Miss Takagi."

She smiled, baring her heart in that simple gesture. "Thank you..."

He seemed to squirm. "Well ... heh ... just because I'm mad at Hajime doesn't mean I should take it out on _you_, right?"

"Well, thank you, anyway. He's lucky to have a friend like you."

Okita seemed genuinely rueful under the even bigger show of humble modesty.

"Gibber-jabber? ... And in my living room too?"

Tokio spun around.

"_Hajime_!"

Saito was standing in the doorway, his fingers tightly gripping the wall in an effort to stand straight, wrapped in a yukata and a shawl heaped over that to keep him warm from the cold outside. He certainly looked much better, but wan all the same, especially since he'd not been able to eat much over the past two days.

"You're not supposed to be up, dammit," was the first thing Okita said.

Saito ignored it; he was smiling. He looked quite grey, and his golden eyes faded to an amber, but he was smiling. He could only see Tokio when he said, "You called me _Hajime_ ... by my given name."

Tokio flushed.

He went on, "So, you _do_ remember. That I'm only Hajime to you now." He saw her throat move, her lips tremble, and he added very softly, so softly, that even she might've missed it, "I'm glad."

She felt lucky she had heard it.

* * *

Even as a man recovering from illness, Saito dreaded to be left alone with Okita Souji.

After the third day, the man, with exceptional generosity decided to move out of Saito's house and go home, as if he was reluctantly satisfied his friend was going to be okay.

Left alone with Tokio was alright; she was a good, capable woman, and every time he thought back to the time he felt she deserved to happily settled with a husband and children, he felt like clutching her fiercely to his chest. Wrapped in blankets, he spent most of the time by the fireplace, and with Tokio nearby, he'd glance at her lingeringly out of the corner of his eye, and wonder at this possessive protectiveness he felt and where it had come from.

For her part, Tokio was always the same woman. He looked at her, and closed his eyes, and wished she would never change. When he told her as much, she'd only smiled at him.

It was evening, and he was trying to read the newspaper, and she sat at the table, sketching him out, and he'd dropped the news in which he found suddenly little interest, and said, "Even if you lived to be a hundred, you'd never change, would you?"

She glanced up, startled. Their eyes met and lingered, and her lips drew a small smile, and she bent her head towards the picture again. _She'd let him think that if it made him feel any better_.

But it couldn't last forever.

When four more days had passed, it happened.

Mr. Koshi from next-door had called. He was dressed in travelling clothes, and carried his walking cane. Tokio was surprised to see him, and the two of them chatted inconsequentially in the hallway, and then she called Saito to tell him he had a visitor.

Almost fully recovered, Saito was still on impromptu sick leave from work. He bowed to Koshi and exchanged pleasantries, and Koshi expressed his sympathy— news travelled fast that Inspector Goro Fujita had been taken down with influenza.

Unable to stand the idle chatter, Saito spied Tokio about to discreetly leave, and immediately told her to stay. The ruse worked. Of course, Koshi had come to have a word with Tokio, and finding opportunity, their neighbour immediately said,

"Ah, Miss Takagi— I'm afraid our kendo practice will have to be put on hiatus for a while. I-I'm going to Nagasaki, to visit my son, and I'm, ah, not sure when I'll come back. I'll send word before then, and I'm terribly sorry."

The next few minutes were occupied with exchanging apologies and reassurances, and Saito disappeared all until Koshi left. Tokio found him pacing about in his room, and she said, a wry twist to her lips,

"Well, I'm sure that ought to give you peace of mind, Hajime. No more kendo lessons."

Saito turned around slowly to face her. He too looked peculiar, and he said jerkily the two words, "Fetch Okita."

* * *

Not in the least was Saito glad when he decided to shove the responsibility of kendo lessons to Okita Souji. The fellow was still looking for another job, and Saito warned him beforehand he couldn't afford to pay Okita.

That the latter agreed nonetheless to the proposition made Saito uncomfortably suspicious about the man's motives.

He knew Okita was scheming, and he didn't like the idea of Okita coming everyday to his house, every morning in his backyard to teach Tokio.

Because, it was only through this act of mutual graciousness did Apocalypse happen.

Okita cornered Saito one Sunday, and marched off with him, all the while calling out to Tokio they were going for a friendly stroll.

Once out in the street and around the corner, shielded by a grove of trees, Okita folded his arms tightly, pressed his lips together, and treated Saito to the most discerning look.

"You're coming with me, Hajime."

"To where." He wasn't amused at having Okita suddenly turn into an unarmed, amateur bandit, and shot him a shrivelling glare to prove it. The steeliness in the other man's eyes, colder than steel, turned icier, the only indication that Okita was serious.

"To the doctor's."

The warning bell sounded like a gunshot. "What doctor?"

"Mine."

"Whatever for?"

"There's something we both need to know for certain. You know that too."

"I refuse to go anywhere with you ... If we're both reasonable, level-headed grown men, Souji, we'll both know you can't exactly make me."

"Not if I don't try, Hajime." He laid an unnecessary sort of emphasis on the given name, as if to add a saccharine press to a sour pill. "Let's not deny you're unarmed, so am I, but I'm fast enough to clip you unconscious and drag you to the clinic."

Saito laughed harshly. "That sounds like a pubescent boy, pouting."

"You know what you sound like? ... A childish old man."

"Now, what? We're going to bicker like children?"

"_No_. You're coming with me."

"I told you I flatly refuse."

"Don't be _stupid_, Hajime. Don't be a perfectly bull-headed ass. You were going to consult a doctor yourself, anyway. Why not let me have it done for you? I know the man who's the epitome of confidentiality, and Tokio will never have to know if that's what you're worried about. I certainly won't tell her."

Saito said, his words harder than what he intended, "I don't care what that girl learns about me. It's _you_."

Okita's features flickered with fleeting sadness. "I'm sorry, Hajime. I really am. If I were you, and you me, I'd say the same thing. But even if Tokio doesn't need to know, I _do_ ... After all, someone's got to take care you other than yourself. Someone needs to watch your back. Even you died in a fight, you'd know while dying I'll be your second."

* * *

The doctor was a Bohemian.

It was the first and only thing Hajime could find to describe him. He looked a like a foreigner, despite his Southern-Japanese complexion. He had a flourishing practice, with a large chamber in the hospital where he was found. Furnished with a large hardwood Western-style desk, there was very little in the office that wasn't big or lavish.

The man himself had a pointed, pixyish face, with a broad forehead, black hair long and straight, and two fingers of his right hand stained yellow with nicotine. There was something affected in the manner of speaking, and he seemed to know Okita. The glowering Fujita Goro who accompanied him, didn't seem to affect the doctor in the least.

To Okita's credit, he held good to his word, and they didn't stay for long. Twenty minutes of conversation in a room that had suddenly tightened with the words being quickly and sharply exchanged, and both men walked out.

Perhaps Saito had been right in his inhibitions, but what could the doctor have cared? Briskly, he called for the next person on the waiting list, and for him, business went on.

* * *

Saito didn't feel he could bear Okita's company anymore that day. Not after what he'd been forced to let the other man hear. His own heart thudded in his chest as he walked home alone, having parted with his friend on the doorstep of the hospital.

He couldn't go back home either; it was suddenly too painfully difficult to face even Tokio.

Somewhere in the realm of things he couldn't control, he'd sleepwalked and taken a giant hammer and brought down his own wall, bringing it crash down to a mountain of rubble around himself. Suddenly, he couldn't deny he felt for her.

Somewhere down the line those feelings had changed from the ardent, inexplicable desire to present himself as a man — as a person — to Tokio, instead of a boulder of ice— those feelings had changed into something deeper, something that clung tighter to his heart, sunk their steel claws deeper.

_It isn't love_. He'd realized that a long time ago. But it was so close that it scared him.

* * *

Afraid to go even home, Saito decided a bath was his best choice and option.

Hot water was what he needed, as he soaked in it. In the languidness that comes only with the intoxicating sensation of soothed muscles, his thoughts began to drift ... away from him, gliding on the back of the tendrils of steam, away from him on tangents unrelated and memories he didn't want.

With one bare leg raised, Saito could coldly observe the raw red line from that night of accumulated anger and burst hate, etched into his skin, running down the shin. He leaned forward and touched it, and the contact of vulnerable skin with the hot water made his flesh prickle. The other hand slid down the folds of the _yukata_ to rest over the flat stomach. He could feel the near-imperceptible ridge of scar tissue from the night Reiji Hoshou accused himself of being unable to protect him well enough.

* * *

That night, easily something was wrong, Tokio didn't let Saito sleep alone. She dragged her futon into his room, and laid it close to his, so close that if he reached out half-an-arm's breadth he could touch her hair. She wanted him to know she'd be there for him.

And it was just as important to her that he'd accepted that, and was thankful.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note**: I'm really sorry for the wait, especially when there are questions to be cleared up, but at least some semblance of a plot is finally beginning to show itself— yay!! (At least, I tried to make it longer, but somehow landed up ending it on a cliffhanger note— _again_.) And wow, I can't believe no one's guessed what's wrong with Saito yet! All the intelligent people keep missing the mark?

But overall, excuses and random gloating aside, I definitely hope this chapter was worth the wait.

**nannon**, thank you! The best is soon to come _pretty_ soon, so I've got my fingers crossed you like this one, too.

**Buffalocatz**, this is your chance to see how bang-on your diagnosis was. Saito's not jealous of Okita at all; just annoyed that Okita's taken to babying him around so much. (As you'll find out, Saito's got enough on his mind even without needing to be jealous.) (Thanks a lot, too, about what you said about me writing romance.) ... (And because of simply crazy messaging service on I haven't been able to return the PM, but don't worry! I will overcome!! ... eventually, but certainly.)

**Rkambereyes**, I am absolutely insulted you'd think I would give up on this story!— insulted utterly::grins:: (Enough with the theatrics) and I'm glad you like this story. SaitoxTokio is simply divine ... ::spirals away into euphoria::

**omasuoniwabanshi**, ouch! Are you sure you're not being a little harsh with Saito? Okita's ghostliness was meant to refer to his stealth; I actually hadn't thought about him being a dying man when describing him like that, but wow, _now_ I wish I had. Hey, the scars aren't really mysterious— they're all the cuts he got throughout this fic, and that bathhouse moment seemed like a nice time to make Saito's body an attendance register. But glad you liked the bathhouse scene (it was such fun to write.) And you _really_ have sharp eyes, especially since you noticed the "steel claw" business. (And um, you really have the divine right to ignore this one, but you _are_ American, aren't you?— I kinda noticed you spelt "favourite" without the "u.")

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

"I certainly didn't expect to see you again."

"Surprise, surprise, then." He'd been feeling crabby all day, and wanted to get things done faster than possible. For the first time, he wanted to finish something like this just so he could go home again — go home to Tokio. Somehow he felt he needed to.

Since the doctor had confirmed rather disinterestedly, what had been only a clawing suspicion, he had been chalking out a rudimentary plan of action. Going home to Tokio had suddenly taken up his priorities.

Outside on the porch of the Shirobeko, that clear Saturday morning, it was a strange picture to see the blue-uniformed police officer engaged in rapid words with the neat, fastidious, yet deceitfully sharp manager.

"So, what is it you want this time? You never seem to want to eat here, it seems."

"I need to have a word with you out here, and then I want to see your cook."

"My _cook_? How on earth do you know _him_?"

_I don't_, he thought grimly. _But _he_ does_.

Sae glanced back over her shoulder, and taking the officer by the elbow, steered him down the steps. She manoeuvred him down the road, and her back to the restaurant, tuned to face him. Her expression was impassive, the set of her shoulders neutral. For a minute, Saito didn't know how to place her, until it occurred to him she wasn't going to be playing the sceptic; she believed there was something serious in the undercurrents, and prepared to listen to him.

He felt a surge of relief and thankfulness; it would only help get him home faster.

"Do you remember the day I came here last? You remarked I looked grey."

She said nothing, regarding him with those cool, dark eyes, observing every flicker of his face.

He went on, "My constitution is such, that physically I exaggerate whatever I feel. I didn't realize I was ill, on the brink of collapse, because so far I'd thought I only had a cold."

"And—?"

"And the truth is, I _did_ have a only cold. Until you gave me the tea."

She said sharply, "I hope there is some foundation to the accusation you're about to make, Officer."

He returned acidly, "In plenty ... A doctor can confirm I was poisoned."

Sae wasn't prepared to believe him, and she had even more misgivings than ever before, as she reluctantly led him into the Shirobeko. A lot of people dropped the food on the way to their mouths to turn and stare— it wasn't often they saw the smiling mistress with a malevolent-eyed police officer. One of them reached out and squeezed Sae's hand as she passed by, but she put it down to drunkenness.

At eleven in the morning, the claim was a little dubious, but just then, there wasn't much that Sae wouldn't have done for her sip of a little warm _sake_.

She led him through the restaurant, weaving through the aisles, until they stopped before the kitchen, and Saito could see how she was loudly debating with herself as to what she should do, or rather, what _could_ she do with _him_.

"You will wait here," she hissed at him finally, "unless you want me to call the police."

Slipping open the door to the kitchen by crack, she slipped inside, snapping it closed behind her. Saito tried to see what went on inside, but there wasn't any way he could re-open the door, not in full view of the diners. It wasn't just the glittering amber eyes that contradicted the automatic "Fujita Goro's deceptive smile" that anchored their attention to him, but also the sword at his side. Of course, he'd been using it relatively recently, and that was all the more reason for curiosity for, leaving him to swelter in their staring gazes as if he'd been left out in the summer sun, wearing woollens.

It didn't help that the month was January, and in Kyoto it was cold all year around.

Sae re-appeared, pulling the cook after her by the wrist. Saito flicked his eyes at the latter, feeling a vague sense of recognition click somewhere within him. He knew at once he didn't like it.

Once more he was evicted onto the doorstep by Sae, this time the cook with him. She nearly shoved her employee at him, as if to say, rather viciously, "_There_. Do what you like."

The cook was a nondescript youth, with criminality written all the way in his glassy eyes (_Too glassy to be real_, Saito realized grimly, without a trace of paranoia,) and in the roots of his greasy hair. (_What sort of cook is he_? he wondered sceptically. _Hygiene's an important qualifying criteria for the job_.)

Suddenly, Saito realized the reason behind the utter vagueness of the cook's bearing, the slouched spine and the slumping shoulders. Obviously, under the uniformed policeman's scrutiny, the fellow didn't want to give anything away.

_I've definitely seen him before_, decided Saito at last. _That night_. _When we caught the drug lords_. _The night Chou Sawagejo chose to fly his true colours— _with_ them, too_. (Despite the situation, he appreciated his own witticism.) It was beginning to irk him how Takamura liked to employ back-alley kids.

The vicious types, too.

For example, like the one that had tried to burn Tokio's hands to the bone.

* * *

Walking home gave him time to reflect and concentrate. Not that he could try his luck with the police Commissioner and demand a carriage. The two men had been in the same tub of hot water since that disastrous conversation about the man Saito killed. ("_Against policy and code_," hadn't been a sufficiently good argument to evoke Saito's official apology.)

The cook, for starters, hadn't been of much help, mumbling and shuffling and casting piteous looks at Sae until he convinced her Inspector Fujita was harassing her employees. Saito took his satisfaction from the sight of the cook's existence, because now that he recognised the man, maybe he could piece things together.

Okita's Bohemian quack had confirmed all their suspicions at once and stated ever so calmly Saito had been poisoned. How? When?

Saito knew he hadn't been wrong when he judged his cold made him look worse than he felt. It had happened countlessly in the past. It was only because of the poison that he blacked out. It was strong poison (enough to have him laid up for two whole days), and perhaps only because he was feeling sick already, he hadn't ingested enough to die.

It had obviously been served in the tea.

And that was how he could prove Takamura was involved somehow. The Commissioner had warned him the man had escaped going to jail. He was obviously back with a vendetta. The only problem was _how_ had the drug lord known he was going to be there at the Shirobeko?

He thought he knew. As his shoes crunched on the snow-littered pavement, his teeth ground and gnashed like a wolf's.

Chou Sawagejo was involved in it somewhere.

Maybe he'd planted men all over Kyoto, ready to take a hit at Saito whenever the opportunity arose. Takamura must have been crushed when his lackey couldn't maim Tokio. Had he intended to use that occasion to send a challenge to Saito? Only to be thwarted by the fact Saito killed the boy?

Was Sae involved, too? Why else had she taken him the poisoned tea?

He glanced up from the sound of his own footsteps, and with a jolt, he knew he recognised the trees and the houses. He was nearing home.

Would Tokio be in the backyard with Okita? With Koshi gone, Okita used every excuse to visit the house.

"_Even if you died in a fight, you'd know while dying I'll be your second_."

Okita who took honour far too seriously. He didn't approve of Fujita Goro's two-facedness. Okita who had played dirty in his time, and took to reproving others and correcting himself as penance.

Saito shook out a cigarette from the pack, and stopped at the corner of the street to light it. Okita needed to move on more than anyone else did. He needed to find a job to pay his bills, instead of borrowing money and making it by fits and starts. Now, more than ever, he needed money to pay for medical treatment.

His old nemesis risen to the surface again, Okita had said he was applying for a post in an university, especially since there had been breakthroughs in modern treatment of consumption.

Saito wished him all the luck in the world, because he knew hanging around the backyard with the housekeeper would not fetch Okita a farthing.

* * *

She was leaning against the bare cherry tree in the yard, looking up as she heard him approach. One hand shyly raised itself. "Hello, Hajime..."

Don't _be_ _sentimental_ ... He merely nodded in reply, crossing the yard straight to where she stood, her hair drawn up in a high ponytail and wearing a man's clothes (he wasn't to know they were Tanaka's— the dead lover, whose scent would forever linger on her skin.) She clutched a _bokken_ in one hand, and Okita was not in sight.

At once he wanted to know where the five-foot devil was.

"How was your morning?" she asked. He leaned his side against the tree; his amber eyes were electric. "Did you find the answers you were searching for?"

Saito stiffened. "_What_ do you mean?"

She shrugged. "You left with a very determined air today, that's all."

He forced the tension gripping his muscles with icy fingers, to relinquish hold. "Yes ... Yes, I did. But I don't want to talk about work— not when you're here, and certainly not while Okita's snooping as well."

"Are you feeling all right?"

He waved it off carelessly. "How's _your_ morning been?"

Tokio flushed, knowing how much he disliked Okita elbowing himself into the scenario. "Lunch is to be on the table in an hour and half— unless you want to have it now, that is."

He shook his head. "Forget it. You're tired." His hand was cupping her cheek, thumbing away a rivulet of sweat trickling down her skin from the glossy glade of tied black hair. "We'll go out to eat."

She smiled. The movement of his lips was all she got in return, all she knew she'd get to see. With a man like him, compromise was the creed. She'd live with it, learn to, because love gives and does not know how to take.

In the cool air of the winter, the two of them under the naked cherry tree, stripped of emotion and pretences.

Saito Hajime knew then it would last forever. Imprinted in his memory, it would last forever.

* * *

They never went home until late, noon dragging into afternoon, the two of them sitting in the park, her legs swinging idly on the bench. A man and his housekeeper. To them, they were just Hajime and Tokio.

Tokio didn't chatter like she would have. His uncommunicativeness pricked her, disturbed her, and she talked to fill the silence— the chasm she was afraid would open between them. She spoke of things that poured unconsciously, things that she would not have said, had it not been a conversation born of hope and need. This time, she didn't feel the chasm opening, the ground heating and cracking to let lava escape.

It was Kyoto and winter was dying, its hoarse voice and spring's yipping cry of glee interspersed in the air. Around Hajime, around her awakening, stirring feelings for the man, she was suddenly reminded of Tanaka. What it was like to be in love.

This love was not like Tanaka's, which met a harsh and bitter end that threw her against a wall she hadn't ever seen. This love was a dangerous love but Tokio was Hajime's opposite: patient and reckless.

Around her, he had no idea what he should be saying, what he should be doing. Hand on her knee, hand on her arm, hand around her shoulders? He felt a reflexive revulsion for Western custom, inbred since the war, and their ostentatious displays of affections, careless of respect. He respected Tokio enough not to touch her.

Furiously unbidden, came the memory of a night that smelled of fear and rage. A night that tasted sweet and unforgettable. A memory of when he dared to kiss her, touch her for the first time.

That was a lifetime ago. Did he regret it? Did he want to relive it? ... For the first time he didn't know. Neither did he want to, but every time he thought of her, the softness of her lips pressing against his mouth, electricity crackled beneath his skin and coldness swashed him from inside. Love was supposed to lift you above the clouds, but he? He only wanted to stay on the ground, both feet planted, because on the earth was where Tokio was.

He wanted her. He wanted, with reckless abandon and surging emotion, to have her by his side forever.

* * *

He was smoking when she came into the drawing room to tell him supper was served. He was sitting in one of the rounded wicker chairs, having dragged it close to the empty fireplace. Without a roaring fire, it was dark since the house was only lit by lamps, and in the tendrils of cigarette smoke drifting from the glowing orange end of the cigarette to where she stood, dissipating inches before her, she immediately sensed something was wrong.

"Hajime—"

His back was entirely turned to her, and his head tilted away. She couldn't see his eyes, but the room was pulsing with his mood. The grimness was intoxicating, enough almost to make her dizzy.

"Hajime, what is it?"

Supper was suddenly forgotten.

"Tokio?" His voice sounded distant, like he was distant from himself. "Tokio— come here for a second."

It suddenly gained a hard edge, like he was ashamed of the weakness he was showing. "Come here for a minute, and sit down."

Apprehensively, she advanced. She was clutching a dishcloth in her hands (she'd been using it to wipe up a bowl of spilled miso soup in the kitchen,) and left it on the floor. She found her favourite couch, and perched on it, clenching her knuckles around its edge.

"What happened, Hajime?"

She was scared, for him, and bit it down.

The silence was suddenly oppressive, like a cold, grey hand clamped around their throats, and suddenly Saito broke it.

He turned around completely in the chair, and faced her, and there was such frankness in his eyes, that Tokio had to smile. _Whatever it was_, _he wasn't holding it in_.

"You're in danger. To yourself."

Tokio's eyes flew open wider. "I'm sorry—?"

"You heard what I said." He was angry. Angrier than she'd ever seen him. His expression didn't flicker, but his eyes bored like drills into her.

"And that's why we can't do this anymore."

His hand was shoved into his trousers, a quick, impatient movement, fumbling in the pockets, snatching out his wallet. His fingers leafed through the bills, and he pulled out a wad of money and threw it at her.

She flinched.

It didn't hit her, but landed squarely in her lap.

"Hajime, what—"

"Fujita Goro."

He ground out the words, and the ferocity in his eyes frightened her. Unconsciously, one hand was fumbling to feel the wad of bills. Her hands found it, her fist closing around it, crushing it against the inside of her palm. "_What_ _is_ _this_?"

When he laughed, it was harsh and mirthless. "I thought it was obvious. Your salary and pension."

Too numb to feel anything beyond the slow paralysis invading her because she couldn't look away from his eyes. "You're — you're — _firing_ me?

"I should think so, yes."

"_Why_? — Why, Hajime?"

She couldn't even feel, cold fingers pressing around her heart, strangling the life inside her.

"Because you've got a life outside cleaning my dishes, and I just realised that a little too late."

He wasn't looking at her anymore. He'd finally turned his smouldering eyes away, into the fire. Tokio felt like his eyes would linger on her skin forever.

"_Look_. I don't want you here; you're a hazard to yourself, myself and all things holy. You can't fight, not to save your life. If I hadn't come home early that day, that bastard would have had you _dead_. I hope you understand where I'm coming from Tokio. I don't need you here. Get a new job and start afresh."

Knees shaking so badly that they were knocking into one another, Tokio stood up. Her legs felt lifeless as she lurched, nearly stumbling as she made her way out. Her hand was still curled tightly around the money, and even without counting, she knew he'd given her more than he could afford to give.

It did not take long to pack her clothes, and she left her charcoal sketches lying atop for her bureau for him.

He had dragged the rounded, wicker armchair to face the fire completely when she saw him for the last time. He didn't make a sound, not a word, as she silently slipped on her shoes. The _shoji_ closed with a _snick_ behind her, and she couldn't lean her weigh against it, not even to catch her breath.

She felt weightless.

Her feet were unsteady as she stepped out on the pavement, and she uttered not a sound, until she was around the corner, where she ran to the shelter of the ancient oak tree, her bags dropping to the ground like dead weights from her hands, violent sobs racking her body.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note**: I know this chapter is a little shorter in comparison, but I was forced to end it at a pivotal point and have enough left for the next one. (Which I guarantee will be up pretty soon.) Also, I can certainly promise **Chapter Fourteen** was only the tip of the iceberg. And, regretfully, Okita will be giving more pep-talks this chapter, (LOL.)

**o****masuoniwabanshi**— I promise there's definitely something in this chapter that you might like. You're the one who convinced me to do it, after all! (Okay, so that's a big give-away hint.)

**ChildlikeEmpress**, brand new chapter. More coming soon, now that I've devised a fairly decent chapter plan on paper (which can't be accidentally deleted from the evil depths of the Recycle Bin and never found again.)

**Buffalocatz**, wow, I was completely overwhelmed by what you said about the last chapter! (The fact that I'm not being blasted apart by Saito's being a bit of a cad— am I to take that as a good sign?) I loved the review; your puns always make me grin. (The sentimental-mental one was a classic example of "funny how one cannot see what is clearly in front of ones face.") And hey! Who says Saito ain't sentimental? He _did_ give her more buckaroos than what he would have normally given her as a paycheck. It was flattering when you said, "I was prepared for her to get the boot, but it was still rough when it came anyway..." (When did you get the first clue?)

**white****fang****585**, thank you for the vote of confidence for the last chapter. I have my fingers crossed this one matches expectations (if you have any, that is ... best not to go plumping up my ego around other people so openly, LOL.)

**Jade The Orkkiller**, thanks for the thumbs-up! More is definitely on its way, and if you liked that chapter, you won't be disappointed as the others come on their way.

**triniti71**, wow, I was a little overwhelmed by what you said about the last chapter. It's really quite a compliment to hear you were "afraid to continue" when you caught the drift of what Saito was going to do. I can guarantee a little more angst, then another shocker. Made my day to read your review. Thanks a lot!

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

January rain wasn't something Saito appreciated; being drenched _and_ cold wasn't an enjoyable sensation. He stopped outside the police station, staring up at the indigo sky beneath the rim of the umbrella.

That pause to contemplate the damnable weather, was as fatal as it got.

"Hajime!" someone yelled. "Hey, Hajime, wait up!"

Saito broke his stride, waiting patiently until the splashing footsteps in the rain-sodden streets caught up with him. He extended the vast canopy of the black umbrella, and Okita Souji ducked beneath it, holding the umbrella to relieve his friend of muscle cramp.

"What is it?" said Saito, his tone gruff, but his half-smile almost affectionate.

"The missus is real mad. Can I come over and stay at your place, at least, until the storm blows over?"

Saito really grinned this time. "What the hell are you talking about, you little bugger? You _have_ no missus."

"I might," hinted Okita, evil twinkles bursting in his intelligent eyes. "Ah, you know me all too well, my old, _old_ friend, my comrade-in-arms of bloodshed, carnage and honour. I'm just a desperate and famished man who craves Tokio's cooking, are you hearing me?"

It was a measure of the kind of man he was that Saito didn't stumble in his step. "She doesn't work for me anymore," he said softly.

"I know," said Okita calmly, quietly. "She came to my house last night. She told me she had nowhere else to go in Kyoto, and you sent her packing."

"I had to. Some whack-job professional assassin out to get my hide would have killed her otherwise. Not everyone lives by the code of honour; we veterans just happen to be a few loose exceptions."

"Well, you're an idiot, Hajime. She thinks you abandoned her."

"Let her think what she likes, and I couldn't care less."

"Would it make a difference, Hajime," said Okita softly, "if I told you she's in love with you?"

"Nope, it doesn't change a thing," Saito shrugged his shoulders, maintaining a steady pace.

"Would you still say that if I said she'd even risk her life if she could have your love?"

"I'd say she was being incredibly stupid." And both men could see he meant it.

"So, you don't really care what happens to her after this, then," said Okita simply, his voice impassive and unreadable. "You know, you've changed a lot since you started calling yourself Fujita Goro. You're not Saito Hajime anymore. Not the real one, anyway."

Saito stopped.

Okita didn't. He walked on with his roofing, while his friend stood there, stunned, letting the rain soak through him.

"Hey!" Saito yelled, shaking out of the vacuous void of nullity that gripped him with suddenness and force. "Who the hell's this _real_ Saito?"

Okita turned around, halting his steps. He lowered the umbrella, so that the moonlight splayed about his face. He wasn't grinning anymore; he was serious. Dead serious.

"I'm talking about the Saito who was the Third Unit Captain and most formidable of the Shinsengumi. I'm talking about the samurai, not the policeman, whose Gatotsu was feared. I'm talking about the real Saito who would fight for the survival of Japan, the one who cared for his home, his country, and the _people_ who shared that country with him!"

Saito stood there like a frozen rock in the sea.

"I'm talking about the Saito who used to make Tokio laugh, not the one who makes her cry. I want to see the man for whom she'd get soaked in the rain to deliver a measly letter to, the man she'd wait into the night for. The one who _was_ a man."

Saito said something, but it was lost under the rain.

"WHAT?" shouted Okita, "I can't hear you!"

"Let's GO." Saito repeated, jogging to catch up, and snatch his umbrella away. Okita grinned at him beneath it. "Let's go find her wherever the hell she's living now."

* * *

Okita followed him home that night, and Saito dropped some noodles into the pan and fried them like they were eggs. When he passed them into the bowls, they were crispy from being charred, and he washed them with turbid soup. He put the bowls and chopsticks on one of the lacquered dinner trays, and served them in the drawing room itself. 

Having come out of a war and the inhumanities of makeshift camping were the only things that enabled them to eat that supper without flinching. Saito fed himself mechanically and silently, his fingers nearly white beneath the knuckles as he gripped the chopsticks. Okita was a little restrained with the amount of food he took in, and marvelled at how Saito didn't manage break his chopsticks.

"Have you got the newspaper around?" said Okita at last, unable to bear the gloomy post-supper silence that hung over them and the table laden with dirty dishes.

Saito nodded to the inner crook of the rounded wicker armchair Okita had hijacked as his favourite. The newspaper was lodged amid the cushions. Okita turned the pages of it without interest. Saito still encircled in red whatever headline he found interesting, and it showed some remnant of normalcy.

Okita didn't know if it was a bad or good thing. For it could either mean Saito was making an effort to go forward, or he was doing all he could to forget a woman named Tokio Takagi had once existed in the empty, yellow lamp-lit house that never heard laughter within it for long.

* * *

Perhaps the mood was infecting him, too, but Okita felt he couldn't stay long. He left earlier than he would have, and Saito showed him out all the way to the _cul-de-sac_. As he doubled back to the house, determined to do nothing before getting some sleep, he felt — for the first time — how desperately lonely he was.

* * *

He remembered the afternoon on the bench. He'd wanted her by his side. Forever. But she was gone. Forever. 

It was like he had no pride left in him anymore, like he was a shell and an alias with no one beneath the mask.

What had been the one thing he wanted that afternoon before the night he let her go?

For her to never leave him.

How arrogant had he been? How arrogant _could_ he have been?

Tokio. Tokio. Tokio. Gone. Lost. Never turning back.

She held the upper hand above his head, and he saw her smile in the darkness of his room where the moonlight played with the shadows up in the rafters. She was beautiful, she was brilliant. She was above him, so far above that he was barely crushed by the heel of her bare foot.

Then, in self-consuming yearning, he wished — he _wished_ that forever _he_ could stay by her side.

* * *

January was not a flippant issue in Kobe, and it wasn't something Reiji Hoshou liked a terrible lot. He sat in a pub, settled at one end of a table to the side, swilling _sake_ straight from the bottle and hoped before the after-effects of drunkenness kicked in, he'd get warmed up even just a little.

It was damp, but clean in there, but not warm either. He sat beneath the window, and the cool breeze washed in through against the back of his neck, tickling the inside of his throat. Twice he'd made the general offer to close the windows, but had been unceremoniously threatened each time.

Digging through the spare change in his pockets, he found that he needed each and every one of those precious coins in there to foot his bill. He flung them on the table, and hurried out before his wallet completely ripped his fingers off.

It was worse outside than inside, and he shuffled miserably through the streets. He didn't want to go back home just yet, especially since there was no food in the house. He'd have to buy some ... The market was around the corner, and he faltered in his decision to go shopping, when he thought of the racket and the crush.

He'd wait until it was getting dark, and _then_ nip in and buy a kilo and half vegetables ... Hopefully, the mob would have dissipated by then.

Slowly, his gaze swept around him, and inside his head, the cogs were turning, each wheel moving the other, as he wondered what the hell he would do to fill the time. There was a certain lady living uptown he could always visit (and bring some flowers along to cheer her bright, sunlit house, too) when he glimpsed a flash of dark hair out of the corner of his eye, and he saw a slim young woman turn around the corner of the street in a kimono with a vaguely familiar pattern.

Reiji was good at making associations, and he oiled the cogs in his head as he spun them faster, and at last he decided where he'd seen that pattern. He'd seen that kimono last on Saito Hajime's housekeeper, but it obviously wasn't the same woman because Saito lived in Kyoto.

The _sake_ had done little to warm Reiji for more than ten minutes, so he took sadistic pleasure in imagining Saito freezing up like a lake in the toe-curling chill of a Kyoto winter.

* * *

In one hand, she carried a bag of shiny red apples, and she had to be careful with them because the bag had a slit up its side and she might drop the fruit she'd bargained hard and long for. The apples didn't cost that much anyway, but the vendor had been so fat, pot-bellied and self-satisfied that she'd grudged him every coin he wrested from her.

She'd gone back to being poor, and had resorted to selling her pictures so that she wouldn't finish her funds (which consisted of her salary alone.) She was too proud to go home until her pockets felt heavier.

Tokio Takagi felt alone, unaided and reborn. To start over single-handedly in her own city where she felt like a stranger. There's no point in doubling back in life. Going forward can take you somewhere new, where as if you go back, you'll only see the same things all over again and again.

Standing in the marketplace, she'd coined the philosophy then and there. Back in that house, they'd done nothing but dance around one another's toes. The same thing again and again. She wanted something new from her life now. Because finally, she was free.

She _felt_ free. And that was the part of it that really mattered.

"Tokio,"

The cold, icy feeling pervaded her from inside, her heart freezing slowly before the rest of her came to a sudden paralysed halt.

The pronunciation of her name, that intonation, that familiar emphasis only he could create on the second syllable of a name she'd heard on his lips so many times. Just his voice, just the way he said her name— even those tiny, _tiny_ things brought hot tears that scalded her eyes.

Her lips trembled, her fist tightening around the grip she had on the bag of apples. It was cruel— oh, so _cruel_ to hear Saito Hajime's voice miles away from home, when she knew he'd never find her here, and she'd never see him ever, ever again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note**: Wow, you guys seriously made my day! I never knew people would like "Unending Winter" so much— talk about a high-powered boost to a writer's self-esteem! Especially a kid amateur::twirls around in dizzy circles::

The reviews were indeed, indeed _very_ flattering (provided that I'm not flattering myself right now.) I honestly never thought (and I mean this without offence or egotism) that Saito and Tokio and their rifts created such an impact that you thought he's come for her in Kobe. I mean, I hope I read your reviews correctly. The bits of advice about how Tokio should tackle Saito were cool— you guys don't believe in letting guys have their way so easily, do you? What sadists, LOL.

**Warning**: Towards the end Saito gets **violent**. **Badly** violent. It's not really gory, but please skip that part if you're against **graphic** **physical** **pain**. (And if anyone thinks it's prudent to change the rating, let me know, please? I'm a total dud at stuff like these...)

(Kudos to **whitefang585 **and**omasuoniwabanshi**— you were the only ones who read that last part of **Chapter Fifteen** with level eyes.)

**Buffalocatz**— thanks for the "Speedy Gonzalez" review! (Love the reference.) Hmm, you said a lot of things all at once, and that's not counting the tidbits in the PMs, you know. Kobe isn't actually a new city for Tokio— it's her home town. Reiji _was_ supposed to be a one-time thing (in the most innocent interpretation of that phrase,) but **omasuoniwabanshi** systematically guilt-tripped me into bringing him back, even if it was a cameo.

**ChildlikeEmpress**, no, no, no! — Saito _wasn't_ in Kobe, saying Tokio's name. I've certainly filed away that advice for later, but in that scene, Tokio was only thinking so much about Saito that she heard his voice in her head. glad you liked Okita's speech. Personally, I thought it was too short to be mistaken for a famous inspirational speech, but hey, any longer, and it would have turned into a Church sermon.

**white****fang****585**, "angst and fluff" is definitely a better expression than "shamelessly depressing remembering to turn vaguely romantic at the last possible moment." Hey! You actually noticed it wasn't Saito in person, but only his incorporeal voice! _And_ you noticed the irony! The best compliment I've been paid all day. Hope you like this chapter, too.

**Jade The Orkkiller**, thanks for what you said. Here's the next instalment, and cheers! — Here's to hoping it lives up to your expectations.

**mangafreak16**, thanks for the memo. It's a flattering compliment to know you like this story enough to add it to your Favourites.

**Lady Seiryu**, thank you. Very much. I didn't know you liked this story so much! And of course, I've got my fingers tightly crossed you'll enjoy this chapter.

**omasuoniwabanshi**, your review was hardly "tardy"— distinctly coherent. Ouch, Saito's a "self-sacrificing fool" now? — then again, it's more complimentary "lout." Did he really make you angry? Wow! I'm flattered (and so is he, of course.) Glad the whole sacking-Tokio took you off-guard. "Surprise readers" has become my new goal in writing. You noticed that bit about the noodles! (Even Saito's selfish sometimes.) After the frying "poached eggs" in oil business, I guess it's been established quite well just what kind of cook Saito really is. The Okita not dying from consumption comment was priceless— I'm going to make it into a quote, you see if I don't. A trio of long-lost characters made their re-appearances here, none as um ... phonetically-challenged as Reiji, of course.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Saito Hajime's strong fists were working unconsciously, crumpling the sheet of paper into a crunching, crinkling mound in his hands. The words were simple, the handwriting made jagged with haste, and spiky.

"_If you go to the train station tonight, you'll find the one person you're looking for_."

On second thoughts, it really wasn't so simple at all.

* * *

_Before that singular moment in time_...

* * *

He woke up with a dull throbbing ache in his chest, suspiciously near his heart, and he went through the machinations of the morning with a dream-like mechanical routine he knew by rote, incorporeally watching his body. The dull ache persisted throughout.

It was a misty day outside, probably because of the early hour. Saito lit a cigarette as he walked, barely remembering to inhale the tobacco, and the fire burned away the nicotine merrily and quietly. It made the fog about his head denser.

By the time he had reached the police station, the fog had lifted. To Saito Hajime, it felt like he'd just turned the corner. Rather dazedly, he went through the front lobby without the cigarette, acknowledging their greetings with mechanical curtness. He went straight up the stairs to his office, and a little clerk who had been dogging his steps all the way scurried into the room, depositing a stack of reports and scampered out like a mouse. Walking over to the desk, Saito turned the pages of the topmost file idly. Paperwork seemed ideal just then.

When Chou Sawgejo had betrayed them, the first thing Saito had done was scour the countryside for the rat. But with Tokio gone— what could he do? Dammit, _he'd_ been the one to let her go when she didn't want to.

He dragged out a chair and dragged down a file. Mechanically, he went through it, progressing to filling forms and signing or denying requisitions. At the bottom of the steadily diminishing pile was the memo that he'd been postponing a report on some matter or the other for a week, and as the bleakness swooped to engulf him, Saito marvelled at how he looked forward to all this pen-pushing.

Early morning became midday, and he didn't see Okita, who would normally, be inhabiting the station like a homeless puppy. He suspected Okita was off giving job interviews, and without someone to go home to, and without his friend, he felt the raw bite-marks of cold aloneness.

Sitting at the desk, his back to the window in the drab, barely lit office, his thoughts strayed to Tokio, how she loved him, how he might have loved her, how they might have had a chance to live together, how they might have been lovers, how they might ... She was — _had_ been — his housekeeper.

Even if she'd stayed, even then, they could have gone nowhere. She'd wouldn't have fit in among the society he rubbed shoulders with. The mayor's party had been clear, devastating proof of that.

Forcibly, he turned his attention to work.

But as the heat intensified gradually and minimally behind him, he couldn't take it anymore and stopped pretending. He threw back the chair with himself in it, and left to go out for lunch.

There was the usual lull of low conversation and nibs scratching as he descended downstairs. He cast a sweeping glance around, but Okita wasn't there. Perhaps Okita hadn't completely forgiven him for what he'd done with Tokio. And the dinner last night hadn't effected much of a reconciliation either.

No one seemed to care he was leaving, and Saito knew an eatery two lanes down. It smelled deeply of left-over incense burned a long time ago, and paper lamps swung in the light breeze. He spent an hour in there, slowly devouring his food, being devoured by a mental blankness that suddenly wouldn't leave him alone.

It was worse than thinking about Tokio.

* * *

Before going back into the office, Saito turned the corner of the building, searching his pockets for a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. Smoking was frowned upon inside, and in the shadow of the building falling over the backyard, he thought he was safe.

Above him was the open window of his office, from where one could see the train station. He wondered vaguely — with a surprising detachment — if Tokio had boarded a train that night. He exhaled a dirty grey breath of smoke at the primroses pushing out of the flower bed shoved against the wall.

Things seemed to be slowing down — the last eternity of bliss he'd had when Tokio was there was melting like ice, leaking away from him. And he was falling.

His free hand clenched tightly, painfully into a fist, as if he was holding his heart in that hand, only squeezing harder, when he heard a cough and a voice uttering,

"Gah, Fujita— put that smoke out."

Whipping around, he saw it was the Commissioner approaching rapidly, and the man did not look happy.

Instantaneously, Saito dropped the cigarette, grinding it beneath his heel before the grass caught fire. He flung up a hand in a lazy salute, judging it wasn't a wise moment to bring out a laconic attitude and wisecracks.

"Sir."

"Inspector."

The Commissioner jumped to the point beyond the salutations, staying in the sunlight, a few feet away from Saito. "What are you doing out here, Inspector?"

"An extension of the lunch hour, sir." He knew perfectly well he was on borrowed time.

"I see. And what of all the days you arbitrarily take off on ridiculously short notice and flimsy grounds? Are _those_ an extension of the lunch hour, as well, Inspector?"

Correction: he was overladen with debt in terms of borrowed time.

The sunlight bounced sharply off the Commissioner's face, reducing it to a hazy shadow but his eyes glimmered and glittered like they were bejewelled. His voice was tight.

"Taking days off to hunt down a rogue informant, suspension of office on flimsy grounds, sick leave turned indefinite, supposed investigation of some poisoner ... Damn you, your list is _endless_."

Saito responded like steel: smooth and expressionless. And mute.

"What the hell do you think you're playing with Fujita? You think this is all a bloody _joke_?" The Commissioner's voice never rose, issuing heated word after word, each intonation hissing like oil frying in the fire. He stood so close, his body tense and taut, like he'd lunge forward and hit Saito.

"Is this what is called Saito Hajime's notorious discipline, Inspector?"

It was the second time in two days that someone had brought up the past in the same manner as yanking the rug out from beneath his feet, in effect slamming a fist into Saito's face. Of all the epithets and insults he'd expected the Commissioner to hurl— this was certainly not one of them.

The reaction was almost physical. He did not move, but his _body_ felt like he'd been thrown backwards.

The Commissioner however didn't seem to notice what he'd let slip. Or maybe he did, and his boiling fury seemed to simmer down a little.

"If I were to put your days of _leave_" — he hissed out the word — "together, then it'd be half a year's official holidays."

Saito held his ground, levelly staring back the Commissioner. He didn't say a word, not a retaliation, not a defence. Too numb. Too unfeeling. Tokio's going had carefully erased everything else in him.

"_This_ arrived for you." The Commissioner flicked a small, tightly folded square of paper at the Inspector.

It was only pure, conditioned reflex that made Saito Hajime's hand shoot out and catch it before it hit him square on the nose.

* * *

Saito Hajime's strong fists were working unconsciously, crumpling the sheet of paper into a crunching, crinkling mound in his hands. The words were simple, the handwriting made jagged with haste, and spiky.

"_If you go to the train station tonight, you'll find the one person you're looking for_."

On second thoughts, it really wasn't so simple at all.

He was pacing, and the floorboards of his drawing room were warm (toasted by the fire) beneath his bare feet. Without thinking, he flicked the note into the fire. The touch of it was making his skin burn.

Of course, Chou Sawagejo had written it, but Saito wondered how the man knew. The next instant he realized that was fatuous. Chou knew _everything_.

It was seven in the evening. The Commissioner hadn't said a word, but Saito couldn't make himself leave earlier. Left to his devices, he would have run across the wide vast prairie that is the world if he knew _she_ was waiting on the other side. But _this_ time— how could he?

What had Okita said? He wasn't the real Saito Hajime.

Goro Fujita who had been an alias and a shell until then was slowly being filled by the leaking essence of Saito Hajime. Fujita was being moulded into a live person by all things negative about Saito— mainly, his hate of the Meiji bastards. Fujita no longer absorbed Saito's sense of indiscriminating justice.

That's why he hadn't been able to leave early. His heart — the heart that lay beneath the ice and beneath the fury of emotion — that heart held him back. In a way, he was glad. That heart would rule from now on, because Tokio wasn't there anymore.

* * *

The rails were empty, and people reading newspapers, suitcases at their feet, littered the wooden benches like vagabonds. The train station was mostly empty.

Saito ripped off the foil on a new pack of cigarettes and lit one, perching down on a bench. There were no women here, and certainly no Tokio. He didn't care how long he'd have to wait— a day, a year. He'd come here every day if that's what it took. Chou wasn't lying; he knew that much.

After two hours and double the number of cigarettes, the air was beginning to smell foul around his head, and the taste of nicotine faded into ashes in his mouth. What did he care? He could finally see someone hurrying into the station.

Small stature, darkly muffled by a hooded cape, carrying a large suitcase.

Saito stood up, glancing over his shoulder to see if there was a train in sight. Not even a stationmaster. He glanced back the stranger, and uncertainty grabbed him hard enough to make his knees buckle. Slowly, hating himself for it, he sat back down.

The person didn't sit, standing protectively near a pillar, next to the suitcase. Not moving, not visibly looking, eyes probably darting to and fro beneath the hood.

Time wasted away in Saito's ears, but after a quarter of an hour that passed away like nine hundred whole seconds for him, he'd had enough. He'd been about to light the cigarette clenched between his teeth, but he sat rock still and erect on the bench, trying to steel himself, teach himself to open his mouth and find something to say to her.

Carelessly burning, the matchstick on fire ate itself until it burned all the way down to his fingers. He dropped it belatedly, cursing aloud so coarsely and suddenly that people swivelled around to look at him. He was in civil clothes, and (he thought maliciously) his uniform wasn't on him to disgrace the Commissioner even further.

Having the fabric of his gloves burnt into his stinging fingers seemed to rouse him. He stuffed away the cigarette into his hakama, and shoving doubt, misgiving, even trepidation aside, started for the one muffled in the cape.

One glance at the man striding towards the pillar with the familiar bridle-eyed determination of a lion, and the person took off, trying to be inconspicuous, not trip over the hem of the cape and escape at the same time. The small flurried movements were fast, and coupled with a headstart, the person was gaining way out of Saito's reach.

But he was forced to be as calm, unhurried as he could. _Don't run_, he prayed. _Don't run from me_. _My name is Hajime_; _I'm not a wild beast_.

The movement became panicked, until the person was tilted forward into a wild dash, and Saito walked deliberately, albeit faster, until they were out of the train station, and then he broke into a run after his elusive quarry.

The night was clear and chilly and empty, and the running figure nearly in his grasp. Disjointedly, his hand reached out before him to grab a fistful of the material of the cape, his voice unconsciously letting rip the one word that held together the pieces and threads of his soul:

"_Tokio_!"

The cape tore off into his hands, almost swathing him as he pulled it off, and the running halted as his quarry stumbled. The cape dropped from his hands, as he reached forward in two large strides. His heart was hammering with blood in his ears.

He reached the quivering figure on the ground, and crossed to the forefront— his fist drawing back and crashing into his quarry's jaw.

"_You_ _bloody_ _devil_."

The figure half-hidden by the shadows fell sprawling backwards, but the shadows couldn't hide the face. So abominably familiar.

Suddenly Saito didn't have any desire to help up the person on the ground. _I've_ _been_ _swindled_, he thought, and if he weren't so heart-explodingly furious, he might have even laughed at himself.

He didn't. His throat was dry.

Leaping forward, he landed another blow, feeling the nose grind under his knuckles.

The ancient fiend, the lurking drug dealer, Takamura howled in agony.

It only seemed to incite Saito, drop a flaming matchstick into his blood. He felt he could rip this man from limb to limb— this man Chou Sawagejo betrayed him to protect, this man who hired someone to poison his tea, this man who sent an acne-faced boy to torture Tokio Takagi. An eternity of hate exploded into rage, and even without his sword, Saito was not powerless.

He leapt at Takamura like a savage beast, uncouth, immoral, unrestrained. One foot jammed itself down, pinning Takamura to the ground by the stomach. The dealer had gained weight, for his money and schematic brains were his only assets. He howled louder, writhing, and his voice reminded Saito irrepressibly of a dog. They were far from the train station; the human sound of sheer pain might be mistaken for an animal's.

After all, Saito could easily be confused for one just then.

"_You_ — _bloody_ — _hell_-_born — bastard—_" was all he could spit out through his rage. Takamura's wrists were in his grip, and the muscles rippled beneath his skin with sheer power. White hot knives went through Takamura from the core of his being; his bones were so close to shattering beneath his skin.

Saito's other foot moved, the heel pressing sharply, deeply into Takamura's throat. It felt like there was a bundle of cloth being shoved deeper down his mouth, and Takamura felt the blood rising from within him.

Inside his head, Saito saw nothing. Not even red. Just empty blackness and a roaring animalistic, primal rage within. The rage of loss.

His catatonia of the morning and the evening before was exploding into _this_. _This_ was what losing Tokio forced him into.

It was a marvel — a miracle — that Takamura was still conscious.

And then, abruptly, Saito pulled himself off that piece of dirt. Not it wasn't worth getting himself dirty, but _alive_ was the one and only way he needed Takamura. The man was choking, gasping, spitting out blood.

Saito wanted to kill the man, but jail was where the Commissioner would want the drug lord.

Tokio was gone— to Saito, his job was all that he had left in his world.

* * *

"You were with Saito Hajime, right?"

Tokio smiled and nodded in silent assent, having lost the ability to speak. Reiji Housho was crouched at her feet, picking up the fallen apples one by one, rubbing the dust off on his clothes.

"I really am sorry about this— didn'a mean to crash headlong."

Tokio shook her head, implying forgiveness. Her pulse was ricocheting at the hollow of her throat. She hadn't thought she'd see someone like him ever again when she'd run from the marketplace, terrified when she'd heard _his_ voice in her head.

She'd never see Saito Hajime ever again. That should have been final.

She wasn't supposed to see Reiji Housho again. Perhaps they came from the same city, but she'd left Kobe a long time ago to go to Kyoto. And the last time she'd seen Reiji there, she hadn't intended to leave. It seemed nothing was final, nothing could be held down long enough, and it was true that time flies.

In _that_ _house_, the last part had been a lie. Seemed like one. Her and him forever, her heart had whispered, but it had lied.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note**: "Squibble" is entirely of my own invention. And about Reiji's living quarters ... well, let's say Sano's were my inspiration. And I'm sorry, but this chapter is a little short. The end seemed like a good enough place to end.

**Jade the Orkkiller**, I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Good to hear you like it so far. (Btw, is there a Lord of the Rings reference in your screen-name?)

**ChildlikeEmpress**, I absolutely share your sentiments: Saito doesn't deserve to get Tokio back so soon, and I remember you wanted to see him grovel. Don't worry, she will make him suffer for every stupid thing he's done. I think you'll like the ending when it comes. (And don't worry: that's a long way off...)

**vtori77777**, thanks for the review. Glad you like my story. (Btw, with all the seven-s in your pseudonym, how on earth do you keep track?)

**triniti71**, thank you for saying I did their emotions well; it made my day. Um, I'm sorry my Japanese is poor, but I didn't understand what "kanashii yo ne" meant. As far as I know, "kanashimi" means sadness, so would the aforementioned sentence mean "it's sad?" I really feel bad for Saito and Tokio, too, but at least we all know historically they have a happy ending! "... so far from where their hearts want them to be" was a really poetic way of putting it.

**Buffalocatz**, don't worry, I'm romantically optimistic too when I watch movies like "My Best Friend's Wedding," so you're not alone. Okita _did_ spur Saito, but he's suddenly woken up to the fact he's got other responsibilities which he can't drop just because he's lovesick. Not to mention he has no clue as to where Tokio is. He thought their relationship wouldn't work because he _was_ looking out for Tokio's interests.

**white****fang585**, thanks for calling that last chapter "intense." Oh yeah, Saito _really_ snapped like a twig. Tokio has him wrapped around her little finger and he goes to pieces without her, albeit more violently than Kaoru. Ooh, "surprises" ... don't worry, I can safely say there's a good one in the near future.

**omasuoniwabanshi**, thanks for the thumbs-up; meant a lot. "Nice try destracting himself from thoughts of Tokio, and I'm pleased to see it didn't work. " — ouch! You really have it in for Saito; I shudder to think what you might do to him if he were real. "Soldier on without Tokio" is a marvellously apt metaphor. At the rate of sounding sadistic, thanks for calling it "painful." I _wanted_ it to appear so, but didn't know if it actually _did_. Oh yeah, he needs Tokio, and boy, does he know it now.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

"You can stay with me if you want," and his eyes glimmered in hope and anticipation. He hastily added, "No funny business— I promise you."

Tokio turned over her feeble options in mind. It was either camping with Reiji who was a virtual stranger, going home with her broken pride weighing in her heart, or to an inn which she could afford. It didn't take long to decide.

"I would love to." Reiji nodded contemplatively.

"I should warn you— it's not much where I live. Just a row of flats, an' by paying throat-cutting rent I manage to occupy one of 'em. It's — it's nothing like Saito's; only fair to tell you that..."

Tokio smiled. "Are you trying to tell me it's small-spaced accommodation?"

"It's only fair to," he said, his teeth edging out in a rueful look. "You an' I'll be squashed with the furniture, an' it mighta get noisy 'cause my neighbour's a drunk— good-natured one, though..."

Something occurred to Tokio, despite the unreality of the situation, with two strangers meeting in a strange alley on a strange evening. "Are you sure you want to give me house-room? It really sounds like you want to get rid of me."

A hand came up to rub the back of Reiji's neck. "Well — you kinda guessed it. I like you — I really do — but it just occurred to me Saito won't take much liking to me if he found out you were here. With me."

Her eyes narrowed. "And— _why_ would that be so?"

He said simply, no frills, "'Cause he likes you more I than I do."

"How can you tell that?" Her voice was sharp, high, but he seemed to sense her fear and refrained from commenting like he would have.

"'Cause I knew him when he was the Third Captain an' I was in his unit. I went on patrol with him, an' I saw him with women in Kyoto. Most of 'em were afraid of him, an' he steeled himself against that. Each time a girl shrank from him, he looked like he knew they thought he was a monster. But you? — You ain't afraid of monsters. You don't care 'bout that sorta stuff like buried pasts made of blood. An' that's the only thing he wants from a woman."

She was silently listening, absorbing each word, so that even when he finished, she kept on listening, re-playing his words in her head. Finally she said, her voice now just above a harsh, raspy whisper,

"It doesn't matter now. I don't work for him anymore. He doesn't and can't mind where I go, who I stay with."

"Did you two squibble?" asked Reiji simply.

Tokio smiled again. Its inherent sadness surprised him. "One doesn't squabble with one's bread and butter," she said quietly, "and he _was_ my bread and butter."

* * *

Reiji had been right to try and dissuade her, for Tokio realized soon enough his neighbourhood, rather than the weather, would soon run her out of Kobe.

It was not dirty, that much could be said, but it was littered with some of the oddest things: a broken table-leg for one, and a sake-jug that split into pieces the second Reiji most inconsiderately kicked it. He chattered fast and nervously all the way, just to divert her mind. Wrapping and re-wrapping her scarf, Tokio listened and replied, but nothing could keep her from keeping a wary eye out.

He lived in a row of flats, and half the doors had been slid open. People lounged against the walls, exchanging cracks, trading grins. Tokio would have been afraid, had these people been drunk. It was slowly sinking into her that Reiji lived in a neighbourhood of good-natured roughhousing and oddities, something that mirrored him perfectly. That was when she knew she had nothing to fear.

Working as a bodyguard, Reiji had a considerable income which he wasted in furnishing his home. It was comfy and tasteful, a little messy but had a lived-in feel Saito's house did not. He apologised profusely and extravagantly that there was only one bedroom. He rolled out a second futon, and hung a bedsheet from wall-to-wall, slicing the room in half to afford her privacy.

She watched his silhouette moving about on the other side of the sheet, and felt a natural, spontaneous warmth radiating from him, and she knew she'd never felt anything like that before. Certainly not with Hajime, not even with Okita, but that was not fair to judge because he was not _her_ friend.

Of course, Reiji had been right: Saito's house was much larger, even by usual standards; and then Tokio felt like pinching herself because she wasn't supposed to be thinking about _him_ when she was supposed to be leaving him behind.

She was _not_ going to go running to his circle of safety. She didn't _belong_ to him.

* * *

The carriage heaved as the Commissioner stepped out. Saito lingering in the station stepped outside into the dark night as soon as he heard.

"Evening, Inspector." The Commissioner's eyes slid over Saito, taking in the rumpled appearance, and then past him: "Where is he?"

"In the station guard's office."

The Commissioner nodded absently. He'd been rudely called away from an enjoyable engagement, and as of late, anything to do with Goro Fujita was making him tetchy. He said abruptly: "Gimme a smoke."

Saito bit his tongue to kill a cutting reminder of the afternoon, and silently handed the man a matchbox and shook out a cigarette he reluctantly parted with.

"Thanks." There was silence, broken by the sudden scratch and scrape of a matchstick and the quick flare of the smell of sulphur. "Thanks ... I need something brain-numbing at a time like this."

There was no response. Saito didn't know what he was expected to say, to do. The violent storm of duty, honour and emotion was still steadily tightening into a knot in his chest. He felt like he owed the Commissioner something for wrenching him out of the careless stupor Tokio had induced in him. At the same time, he felt ashamed that a mere girl could tear away his humanity — the dignity as a _man_ — from him.

He never should have done that to Takamura. He'd felt like ripping out the throat of the drug lord only because the latter had tried to get to _him_ through _Tokio_.

"You know, Fujita," the Commissioner said, "if you could rope in Chou Sawagejo while you're on a roll like this, maybe we could get you a promotion or something to that effect. Takamura's a valuable convict, but Chou is a rogue informant who _helped_ Takamura escape. He'll be useful for your business prospects." He laughed, and taking one last drag from the cigarette, crushed it beneath his heel. "Come on— let's go see our man."

Saito followed his un-uniformed commander mechanically; his mind was in the turmoil he hated. What he didn't like either, was how, in her absence, it was so difficult to remove herself from him. She stayed in the pores of skin like perfume, and it was cruel because he knew he might never see her again.

* * *

It would be nice to eat with Reiji. His kitchen was tiny, consisting of a stove and shelves of food that occupied a wall. He was a fairly competent cook, and she helped him, enjoying the atmosphere of the spitting, glowing fire, the knives chopping, the spices crackling.

He insisted on finishing up, saying he wanted to let the food roast and warm for a while. With nothing to do, Tokio went to the small outer room with a sheet of paper and some charcoal.

In the kitchen, Reiji was busy inventing dishes. His house-guest had cut the vegetables and ground the spices, and he added some freshly-caught fish, trying to make something colourful, attractive and edible at the same time. He was altogether too embarrassed to show her what his real intentions were with the food, and that was why he'd sent her off.

He wanted to impress her without knowing why— maybe it was the sadness in her, maybe it was her tinted smile.

Twenty minutes later, he was hot from the fire. January was fading, and so was the cold. What he had assembled of dinner was done, and he went to find her. She was sitting at a table, cosy, and at home near the fire, busy with something. Inching closer, it seemed like she was sketching, moving a lump of charcoal deftly across the page, shaping out figures that seemed disconcertingly three-dimensional.

Not shy at all, he went to her, bending down to peer over his shoulder. She felt his presence and shifted a bit, to let him see.

It was a good picture, he thought, appreciating art on the most superficial level. A marketplace — a busy one — and a girl standing in the middle of the crowd, which had left an unconscious ring of space around her as they went about their business. The girl was faceless, and it seemed Tokio didn't intend on giving her one. There was something very unprotected in the way she stood.

"Do you like it?" she asked quietly.

"I think it's pretty. Beautiful."

"I'm going to sell it," she said. "I'm going to start selling all my pictures."

The words took him a little by surprise. "An' why woulda do that?"

"I'll need the money," she said simply. "I can't go back to my family like a beggar. A girl needs a leg to stand on, and I guess I'm too proud."

"Where d'you live? I mean, your family?"

"Here. In Kobe."

Reiji winced. "You _are_ a proud one, aren't ya?" He grinned. "C'mon, food's done. I swear I didn'a burn it, an' I made somming special."

"How sweet— a closet ladies' man." She started to get up, and he caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. It was tangibly fleeting whatever it was between them. Nothing like what Hajime could have given her; _this_ could never be permanent.

Then, again, it didn't need to be.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note**: Word of notice: I got tired of the summary, and decided to change it. I dunno why, but the old one kept sounding like I was ripping off a Disney movie.

"Nami" is largely an OC. Historically, Tokio's sister either died in infancy or was with her when she was guarding Teru-hime (Princess Teru of Aizu) during the Boshin War, and was unaccounted for afterwards. There are conflicting accounts on this point, and neither can provide a name for the elusive sibling. I invented one, and I hope no one minds.

And by contrast to "squibble," "_gawp_" is a real word even if it has "Reiji" written all over it.

**Jade the Orkkiller**, I'm curious; what's the "different story" behind "Jade"? At first I thought it was your real name, but apparently not ... And I'm really glad to hear your hopes didn't sink for the last chapter.

**Childlike Empress**, you're so evil. All you ever want is for Saito to suffer. :P. He won't be _too_ jealous, but he _will_ have his heart crushed when he sees Tokio again. Glad to hear you like the story so far and where its going.

**Hajime Tokio**, wow! — "dramatic romance" — it's a nice, flattering way of putting it, since this is my first serious attempt at writing a proper "love story." Absolutely glad to hear you like it; it's a nice confidence-booster.

**Buffalocatz**, you got it bang-on: Tokio likes Reiji for being a harmless mild-mannered flirt (with bad diction) and that's all she wants and needs to get away from the suffocation of being shoved away from Saito whom she loves— loved. I thought you'd be disappointed the "edginess" has dropped considerably in level; does an up-and-down pace suit the story? Yay!! — someone likes the character development! Thanks for calling Reiji "enjoyable" (I'm mortally afraid as to how people will react to OCs, given most people's instinctive avoidance based on past experience with Mary Sues and etcetera.) There's more insight coming from Reiji about Saito; hope it lives up to expectations.

**whitefang585**, Chou will come in good time. You already know what ultimately happens; a fate worse than death: he gets hired by Saito. But somewhere down the line, they meet again. Rest easy— it says SaitoxTokio in the summary, and Reiji's just a bump on the potholed road.

**omasuoniwabanshi**, I can't believe I've taken Reiji to stage that Tokio's contemplating the failure of a potential relationship with him. He was _supposed_ to be a cameo (heck! He wasn't supposed to be coming back _at all_!) and I completely blame you for turning him into this very likeable character I can't bear to discard. And you _seriously_ seem to have it in for Saito! I wonder what you'll do to him when he physically shows up beside Tokio? ... About Reiji and Tokio, I'm not really trying to develop romantic feelings (even unrequited ones) on either side. Reiji's a bit of a flirt and thinks he's going to die a bachelor (hence, the need to impress women in general) and Tokio's not keen on getting back with Saito so she's sort of "exploring" her options. (But I guess I haven't got that feeling down properly in the narrative ... mental note: do massive renovating on fic.) Sending Tokio packing was the biggest mistake of Saito's life and he'll realize it fully as soon as he meets her— don't worry!

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

With a muffled shout and a start, Reiji Housho awoke the next morning, leaping out of the strangling quilt, nearly dragging the separating bed sheet to the floor as he fumbled to get past it, and waking Tokio in the process of barrelling out the front door.

He wasn't the only one. His neighbours had all been rudely awoken from their sleep after long nights of carousing, and were in various states of conscious wakefulness as they stuck their heads out of their flats to see who was out in the street, making a ruckus.

It was a young woman, suffragette-looking, with hair cut into a stylish French bob and in a kimono that seemed to melt into the mould of her body. She was extremely attractive, but there was a firm set to her jaw. She seized upon him at the very sight of him. It took him a minute to respond because he couldn't help but stare at her.

"Dammit, I'm talking to you. Don't gawp at me."

He flinched as he fluttered back to earth. He knew he was hanging out of the doorway, one hand self-consciously and unnecessarily holding closed the folds of the yukata he'd slept in.

"Listen— word around town is you've got a new house-guest." Reiji blinked, only thinking: _Word is fast_. "How d'you know?" he demanded at once."

"Hearsay," she said shortly. "They hear; I say. I want to see this house-guest of yours. Her name's Tokio, right?"

Mutely, Reiji nodded. Only on afterthought, his familiar bodyguard instincts kicking in, did he ask: "Why?"

"Because it's my duty."

Reiji shifted until he was completely blocking the doorway. "I'm'na letting no one in until you give me a proper explanation."

The strange woman crossed her arms. "Are you challenging me on that?"

"Why should I care? I'm protectin' the interests of the folk in there behind me."

At that unexpected bit of chivalry, Tokio's dark head appeared over Reiji's shoulder. The woman in the street blinked at the sight of a human head beside the fierce monkey one. "Hello ... Tokio. Good morning."

Tokio nodded and quickly returned the greeting. She had been awake, listening to the familiar voices outside, and unable to refrain, had finally come. She lightly pressed Reiji's shoulder reassuringly. Knowing the woman was watching, she brought her mouth close to his ear and whispered, "It's okay— I know her."

Reiji relaxed but didn't move. He turned his head so that the woman could only see him in profile and quickly murmured to Tokio so that no one could read his lips: "You are'n' tryin' to make her jealous, are ya?" She laughed and her eyes were sparkling in a manner he'd never seen since she'd come.

He called to the visitor, "Seems you got a clean slate. You can come in— wan' some breakfast?"

She threw back her head as she strode in. "If you don't burn it, then I shall." She caught Tokio by the elbows and steered her in further, ignoring Reiji completely. "Darling," she said in a voice dripping with honey, "if I find you're in a live-in relationship with this man instead of that odd fake Inspector-man, I believe I'll kill you."

"Don' worry, Mrs. Takagi!" called out Reiji cheerily from the kitchen. "I haven't touch—"

The woman had been about to sit at the table and leapt to her feet in fury. "You _little_ cotton-stuff-brained baboon-faced midget! I'll show you to play with _my_ age! I'll turn your mop of hair blue—!"

Seeing that she really did seem intent on carrying that threat out, Tokio laughed and caught the woman, tugging on her obi. "Come on— where's your sense of humour?"

"Not with _him_, that's for sure."

She was considerably mollified when Reiji appeared bearing a lacquered tray with breakfast. He didn't dare to be adventurous this time, but made simple _miso-shiru_ and _tsukemono_. He put it on the table, and handed out bowls of the bean soup. The visitor reached out and plucked a tiny handful of the pickled vegetables; it surprised her how good it tasted. Reiji didn't tell them the _tsukemono_ was made from the leftovers of dinner which Tokio had helped to make.

It was obvious _she_ recognised her peculiar culinary individuality; he cringed with sheepishness when she shot him a knowing wink.

* * *

It was studiously explained to Reiji that their visitor was not Tokio's mother, a resemblance that shone in the fine-boned structure of their faces. "I'm her sister," she said for the umpteenth time, ready to knock out the teeth that glimmered in Reiji's challenging grin. "My name's Nami Takagi."

He looked curiously at Tokio's sister, her bearing, her frankness, her mannerisms that all seemed Western, modern or a clash of both. Then, he looked at Tokio, a woman living with a man who was a stranger, but not her husband. She cooked and was proper, but insisted on making her own living. She was in her twenties, not yet married, and it struck him how incongruous the family was.

"An' I s'pose you're here to take Miss Takagi home?"

"_NO_!"

Nami cast a sideways, amused glance at her. "How violent ... just _what_ would Oka-san say if she saw she'd raised a Jezebel?"

Tokio had turned startlingly pale, but she muttered through clenched teeth: "_You or me_?"

Her sister laughed, tossing back her head. "Come home— Tokio. We've all missed you. Even the newspaper-seller has."

Reiji watched silently and listened, thinking, analysing. It was suddenly becoming prominent to him that the mild, soft-voiced, prim Tokio he's seen in Kyoto was merely the housekeeper. He _had_ wondered what Saito had seen in her! A man like Saito who was mortally afraid of loving a woman because _they_ were afraid of him— and a wisp of a girl?

To him, Tokio was likeable, a spirited person. But he'd seen her silent, submitting appearance before Saito and he realized only now that "submitting" was only appearance. She _played_ being a housekeeper— with her fire, it was slowly becoming apparent to him that her relationship with Saito _must_ run deeper than just the look in his eyes. He laughed at how blind he'd been, and both women turned to look at him.

He flushed, flustered, and waved it off. The argument resumed.

"I'm not going home, Nami— I like it here with Reiji, and he's coming with me today to help me sell some of my pictures. He says he knows an artist here in Kobe, at any rate—" and Reiji swung around to stare incredulously at her for he'd promised her nothing.

"_Sell_ them!" Nami sniffed, turning up her aquiline nose. "My dear, what are we? A family of exiles that you're going to sit in the corner of the market, _hawking_? All of Oto-san's hair will fall out— and the old man's already got so little. And what's all this about staying with Housho? Mind you, I'm not saying it's improper, blah di blah blah, but honestly!— what is he, your new boyfriend?"

"You're. Just. Jealous."

"Of course I'm jealous, Tokio! It took you this long to notice? I'm burning inside that you live in a funny neighbourhood — offence intended, Housho — like another homeless, unemployed bachelor."

"I'll come home in my own time, Nami. Leave me alone until then."

Nami Takagi stood up, nearly overturning the table. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her shoulders were shaking. "Good day, Tokio. Housho— thanks for the food. I bet you didn't cook it, so whichever restaurant you got it from— give them my kudos."

She gave her sister a very curt nod, and turned a very swift, expectant look at Reiji. He scrambled to his feet and showed her out. At the door, perceiving she was still white-hot angry, he added teasingly:

"Good day, mistress. See ya 'gain tomorrow."

She'd already crossed the threshold, and spun around furiously to retort— but he was too quick and slid the door shut. She yelled right through it:

"_Don't_ think you know me, Housho!"

* * *

He couldn't help but notice the sullenness that shaped Tokio's mouth all day long, even as the two of them went out that afternoon, carrying a sheaf of her sketches wrapped in brown paper and tied securely with string. She was silent, grim, and walked with an aggressive jut of her head, tightly clutching her package to her chest.

Walking with steps to match her own, they wound through Kobe until Reiji found the artist's little shadowed wood-structured shop. He mounted the high ramp with a leap, and in the absence of steps, helped Tokio up as well. It was cool and dark inside the shop, and the outer room was a huge display cabinet, with every inch of wall space occupied by pictures in charcoal and water colours. Lined up neatly on the floor against the wall like mah-jongg tiles were woodblock prints.

There was an exquisitely delicate feel to the atmosphere, and Tokio sucked her breath in, hoping to inhale it all.

Gently, Reiji nudged her from behind to keep walking and not to filch anything.

The inner cavern of the shop — the studio — proved to have lots of lanterns hanging, and the sunlight falling in shafts through the only window illuminated every floating, drifting particle of dust. A man with a grizzled salted pepper head was sprawled over a low table covered in dry water-colour pictures as if in obeisance. His clothes were discoloured, pocked with holes and paint-stained. He was snoring tightly, and issued like piggish grunts.

"Wake up, Bekku," said Reiji loudly, moving closer to the asleep artist. "We both know you're faking, so fantastic piece of acting— now _up_ ya get." Tokio laughed, and knelt before the table to see what he had been doing. Reiji added even louder, "Wake up— we're _customers_."

Time stopped.

It produced a horrible effect.

Reiji had probably been too loud because a spasmodic jerk cracked through Bekku, making him convulse like his heart was tightening, like it stopped beating.

Limply, he thwacked back onto the table.

Tokio's hands flew to her mouth to stifle the horrified gasp. "You didn't—"

Reiji shook his head quickly and earnestly. "Don' worry — it's just him wakin' up with what he _thinks_ is convincin' — I didn' kill him."

The old man's eyes were fluttering like a trapped butterfly, and groaning and moaning groggily, was mumbling nonsense about having found the perfect model.

"You old geezer," cried Reiji scornfully at once, "it's _me_ you're looking at!"

Bekku peered and lifted his head, his vision clearing to allow images of the younger man. "Good grief!" he hollered. "Not _you_! — May I rather be speared in Heaven — I meant _the_ _lady_!"

Reiji glanced at Tokio who looked decidedly amused at the prospect of being fancied by an old, probably drug-addicted old man; she knew better than to take him seriously. "She's Tokio Takagi," he hastily introduced them, "an' this is Kokichi Bekku."

Pleasantries were passed around, and then again for seconds by Bekku. He was about to send them around for thirds, but backing away and leaning against a wall, Reiji stopped him— "We wanna favour from ya, old man."

Bekku sniffed and hunted for his glasses. They lay on the floor beneath the table, and Tokio handed them to him. "Of course, of course— Mr. Housho won't know how to pay house calls otherwise. Your parents on the other hand, were _grand_ patrons of the arts. _Grand_ ones!"

"— An' they're _dead_," finished Reiji calmly.

"Well, yes, um, ehm, ah..." Bekku continued to emit a curious horde of noises, but Reiji looked and seemed unfazed by the uncomfortable topic he'd brought up and killed at the same time.

"So," he said at last, "will ya listen to what I have to say or what?" Bekku sighed, secretly grateful for the change of subject, and waved a hand in an encouraging prompt.

"Miss Takagi over there is an artist. I brought her here to show you some of her stuff."

"And I suppose you want me to buy it cheap, of course?"

Reiji smiled disarmingly. "Of course."

Tokio laid the sheaf of pictures on the table before Bekku who untied and unwrapped it. He couldn't help sneaking looks at her as she sat with her legs folded beneath her like a doe, leaning languidly against the table on her side with the grace of a geisha.

Forcibly, he diverted his attention to the pictures. They were black-and-white, done in charcoal, some expressive, and simple.

Simple would do, because they would sell. The people outside the shop, walking through their lives in Kobe, were not connoisseurs when it came to art. They would see a picture, find it aesthetically pleasing and buy it for a good price.

He slipped out one or two pictures from the sheaf, and kept the best ones. "I'll take them," he announced, and Reiji's expression behind the smile promised utter friendliness to come if Bekku didn't pay well. "But it's conditional."

From the wall, Reiji smiled wider. "An' I sup'ose you want Miss Takagi to model, that right?"

"It is."

Reiji glanced at Tokio. "Do you want to do this? He might not pay a fat sum otherwise." She shrugged non-committally.

"I don't suppose I'll have much else to do around here. Mr. Bekku," she added, "I hope you know I shan't be doing anything for charity."

Bekku sighed grandly and theatrically, and mumbled something disapproving about the very soil of the earth being made up of money. The rest of the afternoon dissolved away in fixing prices.

* * *

That evening, the two of them didn't go straight back but spent their time strolling slowly through Kobe. It was a different sensation to be home, and Tokio subtly guided their way away and further away from her house and neighbourhood.

It was nice and comfortable and easy to talk to Reiji and filled up a silence that would have otherwise been awkward. They danced clumsily over topics, until she couldn't help herself, and blurted out,

"What was Saito like during the war? ... It wasn't so long ago and you said you were in his unit. Surely you remember, Reiji?"

He sucked in his cheeks, looking cute and comical. It seemed like he wanted to divert her emotion, like he could _sense_ the painfulness of the subject.

"He was a good soldier, an' a great fighter. One of the strongest men the Shogunate had. There were also these two men: Okita Souji (whom I think you've met) and Nagakura Shinpachi, but none of them survived the hitokiri Battousai like Saito did. He was loyal; he'd protect a country he loves at the cost of his life. I don' know if you've known it, but that's who Saito is: fiercely protective."

Tokio pressed her lips together until they were white. Reiji noticed, but didn't know what to say, didn't feel it was right to say anything just then.

"You know he was what they call a political murderer in a war. He killed many men 'cause they deserved to die, not because they needed to ... that's how he's different from Battousai ... and he betrayed a lot of 'em, too."

She said involuntarily, "_Why_?"

"Under orders." Reiji added quickly, "Don' think badly of him for that, Miss Takagi. He never sold his soul; he never lost his integrity."

"They all say that," she said harshly. "Do they even _mean_ anything?" The vehemence in her voice shook her; she hadn't realized her own anger until then. It was cold, consuming rage directed at Saito Hajime alone. For what? Deeds he had done a lifetime ago? — or for what he had done to her?

"It means," said Reiji quietly, "that it never became _mechanical_ for him. Each time he broke trust, it cut a hun'red white-hot gashes into him. He would've betrayed his own mother if he could save Japan that way, but the guilt an' the horror would've hounded him, not relenting even if he were to die. Don' judge him harshly, Miss Takagi ... he's a good man with many failings he's too proud to show."

She realized then he thought she'd left Saito's employment because she'd been offended by his arrogant superiority. She'd been so close to it once ... but now, she shook her head. "I don't, Reiji ... don't worry. I know now why it hurts you when _you_ can't protect him, but I didn't hurt him. I promise you. We just had our differences and I left Kyoto."

Reiji leaned over on his hands and knees, his keen bright eyes peering into hers. "I don' think I trust that lake-like calmness in your voice ... Methinks you hurt him, an' he hurt you."

Her eyes flew open wider, and something biting rose to her mouth because of his impudence, but his eyes were soft like he hadn't meant to sound offensive.

"I jus' mean _you_ wouldn'a leave him an' _he_ wouldn'a let you leave with your pain unless you hurt one 'nother ... Believe me, Tokio, I'm just not blind."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note**: This chapter is a little short, but it's merely supposed to set the setting for the next one.

**Buffalocatz**, btw, Super-shunters are soon going to multiply; it's not exclusively Okita's lookout anymore. Three cheers! You _like_ Nami::shakes hands with self:: I thought I might've overdone it with her, err, language skills, but I like the persona, too. "Old and stuffy" is a bang-on adjective for the Takagis (and "abusive" if people can slip it in.) No, no, no, Tokio wasn't being malicious when she asked about Saito— she just wanted to know, and got too many answers in return. And good God— I can't believe you're going to give me grief about a "fast update"— I know I'm slow in that department, but Jeez, _do you haf'ta rub it in_::grins::

**Jade The Orkkiller**, wow, I wonder if this story deserves a huge compliment like "magnificent," but I'm flattered nonetheless ... Oh, okay, now I get it about your pseudonym— first a cat, then a girl, then a RPG, then a review board.

**whitefang585**, yeah, Saito had been quite rudely elbowed out of the last chapter, but he didn't have anything to do, so there wasn't any point in him skulking darkly in a corner. Nice to hear you're starting to like Reiji— most OCs aren't very heart-warming to their readers, and (without egoism, I can say) most OCs don't do much to warm themselves to readers' hearts. Glad to know Reiji can do something right! Oh yes he's perceptive; it was to smash the general two-dimensionality Saito projects in fanfiction.

**triniti71**, I wish I could honestly tell you how long this story will be, but personally I have no idea. I've got a storyline chalked out, but things keep happening as I write, and I'm constantly extending it. Let's just leave the number of chapters as a surprise ... even for me ... Glad to hear you like Reiji's insight! Character analysis is a favourite hobby of mine.**

* * *

**

**Chapter Nineteen**

The dust _lived_ in the artist Kokichi Bekku's shop, and Tokio emerged from it a few evenings later, with grey specking her hair. Her arms ached and her legs were cramping from remaining in the same position leaning against a table all afternoon, while he painted her, often cursing loudly and ferociously and ripping sheets of paper when the picture didn't come out all right.

There were bits of paper stuck to her kimono— for he flung and scattered his ruined pictures _every_where. She would pluck them out of her clothes once she got back to Reiji's flat. It was difficult to think of it as home.

Nami had not come back, no word or notice from her parents. She wondered if her sister had told them she was in town, and she hoped otherwise. Her parents were progressive, but protective. They hadn't full-heartedly wanted to let her go to Kyoto, and they'd be too hurt to reasonably consider _why_ Tokio had not come home yet. _Nami _is_ sensible_, she thought tightly, praying. _She won't tell about me just yet— she's not insensitive_.

Reiji, on the other hand, had dropped the subject entirely. He didn't venture into that territory, half out of respect, half out of old-fashionedness. There were many things she hadn't noticed about him, but they endeared him to her further. She wouldn't mistake him for a little brother, and not for Tanaka, her old boyfriend, either.

He was, to give him due credit, very apt in dealing with Nami Takagi. Not many men were not intimidated by her, for the strength of a woman scares many men. Nami used to say, once she'd shot out of adolescent awkwardness around boys, "I _like_ making their toes curl. Has the foolproof guarantee of weeding out wimps."

Briefly, Tokio contemplated the prospect of Reiji as a brother-in-law, but laughed at Nami's probable reaction to the proposition. Her sister was the kind of woman who would either never marry or dress up like a man and stand for elections. Often, it was infinitely annoying, but nonetheless, the world's reaction to her was immensely amusing.

* * *

Reiji Housho was on his way out when Tokio arrived. He was wearing a flat hat, and when he removed it to bow exaggeratedly to her, she noticed with a start he'd shaved his head, leaving only a thin carpet of tender, fabric-like hair. He replaced his hat and grinned at her, and she gave an appreciative nod.

"You look _bold_," she told him. (He grinned wider, showing his gleaming teeth.) He looked more dangerous than usual.

"How'd it go with Bekku an' all?" he asked her.

Tokio's eyes flew open in incredulous horror. "_You sent me into a death trap_!" she accused him tartly.

He had the grace to look sheepish. "Bad time, eh? ... At least, he'll hold up his end of the bargain now..."

She let herself cool a little. "Well, yes ... I saw a drawing of mine on display." She spoke simply, like it was just another thing, but Reiji caught on quickly how much it meant to her.

"I'm glad for you," he said warmly, and touched the back of her hand. He wanted to take it, but didn't dare. "I'm must be goin' now — food in the kitchen's cooked for supper, y'can eat early if you like — but I'll be back soon."

Tokio glanced at the darkening sky outside the open door, and nodded. "Don't worry, I'm not afraid of the dark." He laughed, and left.

She watched him disappear around the corner with a queer emptiness in her stomach. It was the first time she'd been alone in his house, and retired to the bedroom. The dividing sheet was still hanging, and she smoothed the quilt over her futon and slipped in. She felt suddenly tired from sitting in the same position at the table in Bekku's studio, drifting asleep without meaning to.

Her dreams were surreal, colliding and tangibly intangible. She dreamt of looming dark houses and bare cherry trees waving in the wind that carried a flat hat with it. There were eyes watching her— she could feel it on her skin as she glided, dressed like a geisha. Suddenly there was a figure in her path made of long, lanky limbs, one hand balanced cockily on the hip, saying, "_Weed out the wimps_."

Then it all faded into blackness, and she awoke hours later in her head. Sitting up on the futon, Tokio propped herself up against the wall, feeling as loose-jointed as a puppet. She tried to straighten her hair, but her preoccupied mind kept making her hands fall still.

"Dreams are stupid omens," she mumbled aloud. "I _do_ want to go home, after all..."

_Clank_.

The suddenness of the sound made her heart shoot into her throat. _Burglars_! she thought at once.

There was more sounding wedging itself into the room through the invisible crevices in the walls: humming, sizzling, bubbling.

Tokio's heart stopped beating in her ears, slowing down as she glanced down at her hands. If she were to go out and investigate, she knew what she would see: Reiji in the kitchen, boiling a kettle of water to make tea.

* * *

She told him that night itself she would be leaving in the morning. He smiled, nodded, was easy and genial and comfortable about it. He generously helped her retrieve odd bits and pieces of her belongings from the oddest corners, and the following morning, walked her to her house.

Her sister leapt up on the front porch at the sight of them. She nodded expressionlessly to her (but offered to take the luggage nonetheless) and tapped him approvingly on the shoulder.

After that, he didn't go straight home— he didn't feel like he could. He went to the post office, borrowed a piece of paper and ink, and sat there itself and wrote a letter.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note**: Well, here it is— **Chapter Twenty** in which there are cameos by two familiar characters, and more medical maladies abound.

**Buffalocatz**, very flattered that I got you a new motto. It's a foolproof philosophy I try on boys all the time— too bad to works. Nami and Reiji are just Super-shunters to cut Okita some slack, and also, maybe one day, I'll do a VERY weird side-story to UN involving just the two of them. But until then, I'm really glad you like my OCs. Hey! You noticed Tokio's familiarity about Reiji's house! — Two points for Clorinda!! I don't think I'll ever describe _why_ Tokio left home, but with a murdered boyfriend _and_ a sister like Nami can you blame her for wanting a change in scenery? LOL. And OH YEAH ::nods furiously:: When Saito gets his heart crushed into pulp, I will do all in my power to crush your heart as well ... just wait ... it's not so far away ... ::rubs hands evilly::

**omasuoniwabanshi**, don't worry, just because Tokio's gone from his house, doesn't mean Reiji will disappear as fast, too. (I'm _shocked_ you like him so much!) Glad you like Reiji-Nami dynamic— actually, I'm so attached to Nami and Reiji that I have vague plans for writing a side-story to UN centred around them alone. (Yeah, I'm a little odd...) Glad to hear you like Reiji's observations— they mirror my opinion of Saito moreorless. _You're_ looking for a Saito-Tokio reconciliation?? — You think he's had enough?? — OMG! GASP! THE SKY IS FALLING DOWN ::grins:: You'll find out about Reiji's letter soon enough, (and its consequences— I wonder whose side you'll take, and if you'll _still_ like Saito...) About the use of the word "itself," I wrote to you, explaining the whole story.

**keleos**, thanks! Your compliment was really sweet.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

The kitchen frequently fumed now— great cloud of black smoke issuing every other night. It disturbed the neighbours, and they often complained, and each time Goro Fujita smiled politely at them, apologised profusely, and admitted it was only because he was having a hard time finding a new housekeeper to help him with the cooking. One of the neighbours went as far as to find him hired help, but the woman barely survived the interview and never returned.

After that, it became increasingly difficult to complain openly before Inspector Fujita's disconcerting smile.

Sometimes, irregularly, Okita came to visit. He stayed overnight on each visit, and could hardly make himself look his friend in the eye in the morning. Saito was changing swiftly, palpably, and his bouts of self-destructing cynicism made it difficult for Okita to come back ever again.

Other times, he curdled with guilt at how a mere woman could make him distance himself from Hajime who needed to be reminded there was someone watching his back. But he could be so damnably unforgiving, cruel and mocking sometimes — all of it directed towards an invisible phantom hovering about the house — that Okita lost patience.

But things were slowly steadying. Slowly, carefully. Okita was glad for it; he wanted Saito to become human again, one way or another.

* * *

Life was hard for a man on the road.

It was the most basic ground rule they laid down in dank prison cells, encapsulating the homeless, vagabonds, and wanderers. _But_— thought Chou Sawagejo irritably, they never _ever_ told you it was downright _demeaning_.

He knew he must stick out with his appearance and ringing accent, but that gave no excuse for the _rest_ of them to sit around an stare, peer grimily out through the bars like he was a prize zoo exhibit. These people were zoo exhibits in themselves, _real_ vagabonds, _real_ hobos, workers who moved from village to town all over the country unable to find a place to stay.

It was just his luck that in a district like this, people who looked like him were not welcome.

There was no point in shouting to the officials that he was _not_ homeless, that he was in police employ and could pay for his bail. He'd shouted through the bars at the thick-skulled guards, and each time the warden heard Chou, he'd say, "Go use that money to buy a place to stay in."

Which was Chou's cue to start swearing, for he very well couldn't buy a place to stay in if his current residence was a prison facility. He had a month-long sentence, and prison was cold, mundane and brain-numbing.

The vagabond in the adjacent cell also had some respectability, which had been fastidiously ignored by the warden. He was a pleasant, chatty soft-voiced man, but _too_ chatty for Chou's taste. But it was a way to blow off the heavy-hanging fog of time, and he subjected himself to a long, brokenly-told tale about how this other homeless guy had come out of the war with a wound in his heart, a vow to maintain, and redemption to seek.

_A fine cock and bull story_, thought Chou dully, wondering who the scar-faced man he only caught glimpses of, was trying to kid.

* * *

Over the past month or so, Inspector Fujita had become a regular sight at the post office, coming every morning before he went to work. He waited for a letter he knew would never come, but hope is cruel in that it tears us apart from inside if we don't give in to it.

The postmistress was the widow of a Meiji supporter, killed by the Bakufu's men. She was grey-haired and perennially smiling absently, and called out to Saito as he strode in through the doorway, "Mr. Fujita, a letter from Kobe for you!"

For a second cut in half, something inside the man began to swell, but "Kobe" was like a needle calculatedly puncturing his heart.

He nodded curtly, and swept over to her desk, politely snatching away the envelope from her. He ripped it open with his bare hands, and pulled out the letter. It was from Reiji Housho, and he skimmed through it, absorbing every word at the same time.

It was simple and brief:

"_Fujita Goro_— _weather's God-damned awful here_, _so I would strongly recommend packing woollens. Lots of woollens_. _The reason I'm writing to you after a polite, 'professional' silence for several years_, _is that I'm old_, _lonely_, _and am going to die a bachelor_. _I am __begging__ for your sympathy here_. _I haven't been able to intake solid food for half a week now_, _and am feeling ill with a terrible sickness I can't describe_. _You and I aren't great friends_, _but I would like to see you in Kobe one day before I die_. _Sincerely_ (_this is __no__ tremendously hilarious practical joke_) _Housho Reiji_."

Sceptically, he glanced up at the postmistress and asked, "Have their been any other letters for me?"

She shook her head in a quick, smiling negative, and he left with the sensation of there being a boulder perched over his heart.

* * *

Work kept him occupied until late that evening when it bordered on night, and around eight o' clock, Saito had the opportunity to visit Okita Souji. The latter had been in the middle of supper, and offered his guest some of the _soba_. Saito was distinctly glad to accept a chance not to cook his own dinner.

After the dishes had been rinsed, the two of them sat in Okita's drawing room, and Saito wordlessly handed over Reiji's very crumpled letter in its envelope. Okita's eyebrows shot up, and Saito frowned, and silently the letter was read. "What do you think?" demanded Saito once Okita grasped the gist of the matter.

"I think this involves a consultation with my doctor," he said very straight-facedly.

Saito snorted with good humour. "_Right_. What else can you offer me?"

"_Hajime_..." Okita tried to sound as miffed as possible. "I am _not_ a salesman, thank you _very_ much. And," he added in normal tones, "I recommend doing the obvious and actually visiting the poor chap. See? He even sent you the train tickets?"

"_What_?" Saito leaned over and snatched away the envelope and emptying it hurriedly. Nothing fell out.

Okita was treated to a very ugly scowl.

Nevertheless, Goro Fujita's neighbours were sure to find some respite, for they all saw the Inspector pack his bags and leave his house the very next day. He had to buy his own railway tickets, however. As the locomotive jostled and jangled and juddered over the rails, he had a suspicious feeling Housho knew full well he hated trains.

* * *

He already knew where Housho lived, and wished he didn't as he picked his way through Kobe, a giant battered suitcase gripped in one hand to keep it from falling off the seat of the jinrikisha. It was impossibly difficult to tell most streets from each other when they were balefully empty in the dead of night. He was lucky, thought Saito grudgingly, to have found some means of transportation, even if the man pulling the poles was hopelessly misdirected.

It was past eleven when he recognised the familiar feeble light of the lamps at the corner of Reiji's street.

Stopping the jinrikisha at the lamppost, he disembarked, dragged down his luggage, and peeled out the crisp bills to pay his fare from the depths of a pocket. Saito was in uniform: dressed immaculately like a police officer, with the hat jammed on his head. He knew it looked intimidating, and he intended every bit of that.

As the jinrikisha started to leave, he picked up the suitcase, and started off for Reiji's apartment. It shouldn't be difficult to find, for it would be the only lit house that was silent in the entire row.

To his grudgingly admitted surprise, he found Reiji Housho sitting in his open doorway, waiting.

"You're not really sick, are you?" demanded Saito, loudly dropping his suitcase and missing Housho's toes only by accident, because of his ill temper.

Housho's teeth gleamed. "Well, not if ya exclude these marvellous imitations I can do of a cat croakin' up a furball, that sounds convincin'ly like a hackin' cough..."

Saito's mouth twisted like he'd tasted something unpleasant.

"Predic'able," tutted Housho. "Laugh once in a while, will ya? Don' be too proud to appreciate that leg of yours that's been pulled."

"It's late," said Saito coldly. "I suppose I'll have to stop here for the night."

Reiji shrugged indifferently, clearly put off by the hostility. He drew open the door wider, and closed it behind his grudging houseguest. "We share a room," he said tonelessly, "and I hope you've eaten."

"Certainly I have; one _can't_ stand your food-making skills."

Bristling, Reiji picked up the suitcase and carried it into the house. Saito stood in the drawing room, lighting a cigarette and taking a small drag. He looked impatient, annoyed and thoroughly put off. He barely noticed as his host left.

Reiji returned a little later. He'd rolled out the spare futon, brought out a pillow— he had no illusions about who had or hadn't slept in that futon last. He wasn't going to tell Saito.

"Bed's ready," was all he said. "I put out a yukata of mine if you don' feel like unpackin' your traps today."

Saito merely took another drag at the cigarette; he wondered if and how Housho knew the next train to Kyoto was three days away. But the irritation rankled in him— he felt like crushing Reiji Housho's skull between his fists. _He was not to be a made a fool of_.

Vaguely, he was aware of Housho standing around the room, on the fringes of his consciousness. The man's presence infuriated him further. He took a last, tight breath of tobacco, and flung down the cigarette, grinding it quickly before it could scorch the floor. Behind him, he sensed Reiji flinch.

"_What_."

There was no reply.

Saito's lip curled. He had _not_ damaged the floorboards. Slowly he turned his head around to see what was pinching Housho's usually verbose mouth shut. He caught — full frontal blast — the queer way Housho was fixedly staring at him.

"What's wrong with your jabbering tongue?" asked Saito laconically. One hand slid into his pockets to find another cigarette. It surprised him how fast each of them were diminishing.

"_You're a swine_."

He'd said it so fast Saito nearly didn't catch the words. But he did. And his fist crumpled the box of cigarettes.

He slowly wheeled around. His eyes, drained of his frustration, had started to glint dangerously.

Reiji said, his voice low and tightly controlled, "_This_ is how ya treat a man who gives you his house to sleep in for the night?"

"Careful, Housho," said Saito softly, dangerously, "let's not forget I came down here paying my own railway fare in a heartbeat because I thought you were ill."

"An' your uncharact'ristic bout of humanity's supposed to make it right? _An ounce of kindness for a pound of debt_?" The **sapient** eyes were glowing inhumanly, and Reiji's lips lifted in a snarl. "You disgust me with your arrogance. Me, an' once upon a time, I was ready to kill all your enemies at the cost of my life."

"I never asked you to, Housho," said Saito coldly, but he uttered the words only after Reiji had left. Sometimes people need the illusion of victory. He was giving Housho just that.

Separated from Saito by a shoji, Reiji lightly snorted.

* * *

The next morning, there was a brittle frostiness in the air. Both Reiji and Saito were early risers, and there were boxes of packed food from a local restaurant on the table. The two men were silent and unforgiving, not afraid to meet each other's eyes, but still, never knowing what to say.

It was Reiji who broke their angry deadlock, not because he was more adult of the two, but because it simply had to be said.

"I've gotta protection job to do today," he said abruptly, lowering his chopsticks. "I mightn'a be home until dusk, maybe later ... Feel free to catch any ride home before then. I assure you— I won' mind."

"Thanks," said Saito just as coolly. "I'll keep that in mind." And he meant it. He really, honestly did. It made his blood seethe to be here under Housho's roof, but not even could deny it wasn't a wise option to give up free accommodation. For Reiji's part, he simply felt like cheap dirt.

With his heart burning fiercely in his chest, he truly _hated_ Saito for his superiority that lent him that arrogance.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note**: I'm sorry that right now I'm a bit of a crazy rush, so I can't reply to each person who reviewed (thanks to all of you!!!) but I'm just going to post this and run— but beware, you'll hear from me again soon!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

There was nothing to do in Kobe— his hands were as good as sliced off at the wrists. Unable to stay in Housho's house, where his blatant contempt for the circumstances that had brought him there, echoed amid its walls.

Reiji was just as glad to see Saito leave, temporary respite until the man returned. Walk out with fading footprints. He collected his hat and knives, and left soon after his guest. He did not like the dirty smell of cigarette smoke hanging about his own house.

The war had never brought the Shinsengumi to Kobe. The city was alien, and even more sop, because he was coldly alone inside, and lost, having lost everything he had ever had.

Saito stopped by a roadside shop near the house he could bear to be in, buying a packet of cigarettes even if he had not finished the last one. He passed the coins over the counter, a tinkling, metallic measure of his material loss. It neither eased nor replaced the weight heaving down on his shoulders.

He noisily ripped off the cellophane, crunching it in his fist, feeling it roll and be crushed against his palm. It was a bleak morning, he thought, an empty morning.

Of own accord, his back was straightening, his shoulders stiffening, and his feet falling sharper, and his hand unconsciously raising his fingers to his lips in a practiced movement.

Only when the roughened fingertips brushed against his mouth, did his eyes snap open.

He jerked his head around to glance at his surroundings. He was standing in a street lined by dilapidated buildings.

Old shops, what had been a pub before the roof had caved in, a dress-maker's sign hanging out the door. What caught Saito's eye was the one with the door flung open. It was the only one that seemed inviting, sunlight illuminating the dark interior.

It seemed to be an art-seller's place, and his sheer curiosity was tempting Saito powerfully. He had started to enter, foot on the step, when his whole body seemed to slump, and he sank down on the steps.

He would have slowly drowned, if the ground would open to swallow him up. It was only then that he noticed what was trapped beneath his shoe as it fluttered out from the shop.

Shifting his foot, and bending down, he peered at it, a hard punch slamming into him, sending him reeling.

Eerily faceless people stared up at him from the fallen sheet of paper. A woman in a crowded market, the people thronging the vendors and their goods leaving an unconscious ring of clear space around her like she was marked...

The signature was like ice slapped against his cheek.

_T.T._ He knew those lines of drawing, and he knew that signature.

Bekku, the bachelor artist, came hurrying out of the shop, and Saito wordlessly handed the picture back.

* * *

The unthwawing anger that had lasted all day seeped insidiously into evening, poisoning them. Reiji Housho walked back to Kobe on foot, a long, dreary journey that made his mind wander madly. He was splattered with blood, where one of his knives — thrown from the back of a wild careening carriage — had killed a man.

His job had been done well, but Reiji did not feel like a rich man. He did not ever understand how his own life had been defined by the number of lives he took.

He thought of Saito— and the dragon stirred drowsily again. How different were the two of them? Saito too lived and stole ... but Saito was never happy. He never found happiness. Reiji was reminded irresistibly of Tokio Takagi, and maybe Saito was resigned to consuming misery because he had lost happiness at a time when he'd thought he'd never find it...

Beneath the dragon's roaring, he felt a trickle of pity for the life Saito was now forced to lead.

* * *

There were no lights glowing in the windows of his house, and hiss heart leaping with (shameful) elation, Reiji wondered if Saito had really left, after all. After all, as the Englishmen said, an ounce of pity doesn't clear a pound of debt.

He was decidedly cheery as he breezed into the house, lazily discarding his hat and coat and arsenal of knives, the latter with a careless clatter. He went straight to the kitchen, to find the _sake_ jug, and went around to the tiny backyard to enjoy his drink in the moonlight.

Reiji Housho froze on the backstep of his own house.

Saito Hajime was still there, smoking against the fence.

"_Housho_."

Reiji started at the sound that whispered through the darkness and moonbeams, amid which he could make out the glowing feral eyes above all and anything else. Was it only him, or was there underlying hesitancy in Saito's voice? He replied carefully, slowly, measuredly:

"_Hajime_."

* * *

Once more, at breakfast, the following day, Reiji was accosted.

"Did you _know_?"

"I know a lot of things, act'ally, Hajime."

"About this."

Saito leaned over to nudge something beneath Reiji's plate. It was the picture he'd bought from Bekku. With one finger, he rapped the table exactly over the rushed initials in the corner. "_That_, Housho. _That_."

"Tee-tee," read Reiji bemused. "What's it? The artist's signature? So what?"

"It's Tokio's," said Saito softly, dangerously, watching with each word he uttered. Waiting for recognition at every step.

"Tokio?" Nothing happened.

"Tokio Takagi."

"Sorry? Sound'a bit fam'liar—"

"From Kyoto. My housekeeper."

"_Right_!" Reiji shot upright in his seat, beaming. "Wow, Hajime— she's got quite a bit'ta talent!"

"Yes, she has," said Saito absently. "She's in town, in Kobe. Seen her?"

Reiji gave a dismissive click of his tongue. "Nah — but I might've — not sure — see, I'm sorry to be the spanner in the cogs, Hajime, but I don' rem'ber much of her. Bit of a long time ago, see..."

And it was then at once that the spear thrust through the fish. Saito knew. Reiji was hiding something.

He watched the man opposite him with narrowed eyes, as he carefully resumed dinner, and Reiji's demeanour and bearing did not change. Complete innocence ... ignorance ... obliviousness...

But Reiji worked as a bodyguard; he was neither innocent, not ignorant, nor oblivious. He was sharp like the sandpaper-grazed edge of a katana; he remembered the faces of his enemies and never forgot them; it was his _job_ not to. And Saito was sure his own eyes betrayed him each time he flicked his gaze at Tokio in Reiji's presence.

Reiji was not the kind of man to forget a sight such as that.

* * *

Then that morning, he bid his farewell to Reiji. He was going to leave at last.

With sudden generosity, Saito had let the subject drop at breakfast about Tokio. Undoubtedly Reiji Housho might know where Tokio was now, but he was withholding that for a reason, for a promise maybe? Saito chose to respect that. He knew he still owed Reiji something. Even someone like him could see something like that.

The Takagis were a funny family, influential in the old days, daughters brought up liberally, powerfully. The old man was eccentric, too, they said, and there were rumours they had long since moved out of Aizu, where they had lived while the Shogunate crumbled.

It took all the strength he could muster for Saito to leave Kobe, to go back home, knowing Tokio wasn't so far away that he could stretch his arm and not brush against her with his fingertips. Parting was final, inevitable, and he did not have a place beside that girl. But there was a wolf, keening forlornly deeper inside him than his heart, baying at the silver moon that seemed so far away, but probably was so close...

* * *

He moved with the determination of a predator, the hands shoved into his pockets had the gentleness of a lion toying with prey. People glanced back at him as they passed, and his glowering eyes returned their gazes, and instantly they withdrew. Suddenly the alien city of Kobe, and its smell of apprehension, seemed all too familiar. It bolstered Saito inside, gave him courage for the first time.

The house was before him, small clumps flowers pushing up prettily all around it. The afternoon seemed quiet, peaceful. Like an invisible circle of slumber had been drawn around this residence.

There was a girl standing on the front porch, hair razed short, formal kimono with the hem trailing on the wooden planks. Then he realized it wasn't that— the girl was posing as a mannequin, and another figure kneeling beside her with tape measure and threaded needle stood up and went inside the house.

Saito knew then that if he hesitated anymore, he would be soon to lose himself to self-doubt.

He crossed the street like a ghost, and climbed the steps of the house, soundless to his own ears, his eyes fixed on the back of the girl's head.

He was _this_ close to her— when she was rushed into sudden awareness of his presence, of his identity. Something swooping like fear flooded her, and she whirled around to face him, tripping on the hem, stumbling back over the edge of the porch.

Afraid to see her fall, his arm shot out to grasp her by the wrist, but she caught hold of a beam and balanced herself on a step. She was shaking, and her throat moved, but the words would not come. He too was trembling somewhere inside where he would let no one see, and all he could say was her name. "Tokio— it's all right. It's all right."


	22. Chapter 22

**C****hapter Twenty-Two**

The way her heart exploded in her chest at the sound of his voice made her shiver; she thought she was free but she wasn't. She was tied to him, and it was she who was tying herself to him.

"How did you find me?" she shot out, jerking up her chin to meet his eyes unafraid.

"Don't worry," said Saito quietly. "No one told me. It was this..." He handed her the drawing he'd bought from Mr. Bekku. Then he added, as if to make conversation, "You cut your hair."

She smiled ruefully and touched the nape of her neck. "It was entirely my sister's idea ... I've been mixing with her type of friends a bit, and she suggested I wear my hair short like they do. Nami calls it radicalism; in her opinion, hair tied up in buns, signifies how men chain women ... to be honest with you," she added, catching sight of his face, "I cut it because the heat was getting to me."

Saito laughed, and Tokio wondered briefly if he did only because _she_ said it.

"I hope you're not laughing at my appearance," she went on. "I'm only doing this because I seem to be owing Nami a whole lot of favours lately..."

He said abruptly, "It looks nice on you." She smiled.

"Thank you, Mr. Hajime— that's sweet of you."

It was trickling into them now how formal, how stilted the conversation suddenly was. The only thing he could think to do was light a cigarette; a quick, involuntary reflex. She did not take her eyes off him though, waiting, watching. Saito cleared his throat lightly and took the plunge: "My neighbour, Koshi's back in town. He's been asking about you ... the most dedicated student he must have ever had."

"That's ... nice of him ... to remember..." The smile on her face was very forced, and he thought he was expected to reply—

Nami barged in.

"Tokio! Oka-san wants you to—"

She stopped, half-swinging out of the doorway, staring with narrowed eyes at Saito.

In retrospect, the intervention seemed a little too opportune, but Nami swiftly ploughed on.

"Tokio. Oka-san wants you in right now. Lunch is ready. And she says," Here, she wrinkled her nose, "that you can also bring in your gaijin look-alike, if you must."

Tokio snorted with laughter, and swung away her head so that Saito would not see. "Nami, shut up. And tell her I'm coming."

"I'm not _wrooong_," drawled her sister blithely. "Look at him. The cigarette, the shirt, the trousers ... _Aagh_!" She let out a theatrical shriek as Tokio lunged forward, and vanished into the house.

* * *

The interior of the house was surreal after the brightness of the orange afternoon; inside the furniture stood half in shadow, half in light, everything dim, austere and haunted. Saito was vaguely reminded of his own residence as he followed Tokio inside, but the reigning silence of this house was full of rebellious noise: pots clanging, fabric whooshing, newspapers crackling, sliding doors ramming into their grooves.

He heard the dishes and bowls being placed on the dining table before he entered, soft clinks of china against wood, sounds accentuated by the grim stillness of the house.

Nami was laying the food on the table as Tokio entered, Saito at her heels. The elder Takagis were already seated, Katsuko Takagi putting away her newspaper. "Goro Fujita," she murmured carefully as he appeared, and Kojuro turned around briefly and turned away incuriously to resume inspecting his interlaced fingers. Nami didn't react.

"Over here," grunted Kojuro, and Saito seated himself accordingly beside the man. The sisters were on the other side, Nami calculatedly opposite him, and Katsuko at one end of the table.

Mrs. Takagi began to serve the rice. "We've heard a lot about you from Tokio, of course, and you _are_ a reputed man," she was saying, reaching for the teppanyaki next. Not unconscious of the ephemeral flash in his eyes, she added, "Were an old Aizu family, Fujita, never forget that..."

"You sound like ninjas," he muttered under his breath, and Nami made a sound reminiscent of appreciative amusement, albeit of the extremely reluctant kind. Funny how he knew instinctively he could get away with saying what he'd said...

The Takagis talked at mealtimes. A lot. They only stopped short of exhorting daily news out of everyone.

"Mrs. Mintaka is becoming quite the modernist," began Kojuro conversationally. "Saw her throw out her uncle's scabbard. Shame. I would have liked to fight by that gentleman again — fine man he was — one of the best the Ishin Shishi lost." No one glanced at Saito to see what reaction that would provoke, but Kojuro went on, "When I stopped by her house, she asked me how much I intended on giving her for ogling that relic."

"She's going potty," said Nami dismissively. "Lost it — calling her modernist is pushing it, she doesn't even think women have the right to vote—"

("Nami thinks anyone who isn't suffragette is 'potty,'" supplied Tokio for Saito's benefit. "Her English girl friend is rubbing off on her like a cat rubs against a person's shins.")

"Now, now," broke in her father calmly, "giving women the right to vote is downright dangerous, you know that..."

"Indeed," chimed his wife, and Saito choked simultaneously on a piece of vegetable and his surprise. Katsuko coolly went on, "We'll have pseudo-modernists like Mrs. Mintaka overthrowing the Meiji then, and where will we be?"

Tokio met Saito's glance, and doubled over her food to stifle her giggles.

* * *

Katsuko Takagi's eyes were like a doctor's needles, probing, questioning, understanding. She was a woman of medium height, her back always arched, and in tailored kimonos that didn't give her volume, but fitted into her, a lot like Nami's clothes. Her hair was long, rich and dyed auburn in long-running streaks that cascaded out of her bun; she irresistibly reminded Saito of a very satirical goddess, each time she intercepted his gaze imperceptibly lingering on her.

She cornered him soon after, leaving her girls to clean up.

"Mr. Fujita," she said, materialising before him in the doorway of the dining room, stepping towards him, forcing him back against the wall. "I trust you'll be staying overnight."

He hadn't thought about it.

"I wouldn't like to intrude," was all he said, glancing warily into those eyes. Now that he was forced to think— it was unlikely Reiji would mind.

"I think you should," she murmured silkily. "It's a long journey back to Kyoto after all—"

"Oka-san, I—" Tokio stopped, her eyes narrowing reflexively. _Her mother and Mr. Hajime_. There was a frog in her throat.

Katsuko whipped around, loose strands of hair lashing Saito's chest. One hand flung out behind her and her daughter's line of sight, firmly pinning Saito to the wall.

Simultaneously— he was thrown back, and he clamped his jaws closed to make it look deliberate. If he'd been a lesser man, he'd have _gawked_.

"Uh-h, Oka-san," stuttered Tokio, "it's not, erm, _polite_ to harass Mr. Saito..."

He was solidly staring at the woman's back, her fingers tightly splayed across his chest.

"Ofcoursenot," said her mother so fluidly it triggered the memory of Battousai Himura. "Mr. Fujita's only going to stay over for the night— he can have your room, because I hardly doubt Nami's will be fit for male habitation— she's sue her own poor mother for disrespect for her beliefs."

Sharply, she withdrew her hand, grabbing Saito by the wrist this time — the same wrist that had been about to sneak out a cigarette — and propelled him forward with a jerk.

"Be a dear child and show him his quarter, will you, Tokio?"

And with that, she glided off down the corridor. The stood in silence staring blankly at each other as a shoji opened and closed somewhere. Tokio shakily cleared her throat, looking straight at him for the first time.

"You're, uhm, welcome to leave — I mean! Stay as long as you like! Don't let her boss you around— she's just heard about you, that's all..." She trailed away, and coughed.

"Ah — it's a long way back," managed Saito, cursing himself for having to control a stutter. Was he a man or a _sheep_! "If it's not too much bother, I wouldn't mind taking up your mother on her invitation."

"Oh — okay," She looked even more shaken than before; he looked at her closely, but was unable to tell if it was displeasure, shyness, or discomfort. "All right. Just follow me — this way—" She started off down the way Mrs. Takagi had gone, glancing back over her shoulder just once.

Their eyes met. There was so much unspoken and crammed into that moment, that it simply wouldn't have been wise to speak.

"Mr. Hajime," she said softly, "please don't smoke."

* * *

Reiji had eventually received note about not returning: _Housho_— _thank you for your hospitality_. There was no signature, but the courier had said, "The scary man at the Aizu family's house sent it," and Reiji had understood.

He'd laughed to himself then, and now, as he leaned over the bridge, he ruefully inspected his reflection in the stream below. He had a nice shiner to making him look halfway like a raccoon, and a crooked nose. The raw scratches across his knuckles still stung. But at least he wasn't angry anymore.

A hour ago he'd been at the bar, trying to look up a friend. He'd found that friend quarrelling with the barman over the tab, exchanging fists, and like a bloody hero he'd ducked into the stupid fray. He supposed now he'd been trying to redeem himself then.

It was all so stupid. Now it was. In retrospect.

Difficult to believe he'd been hissing and spitting with Hajime because his help hadn't been appreciated. Since when did the expectation of appreciation ever dilute a relationship with a man like Hajime? Reiji chuckled; he was going soft, and he could believe that without cynicism.

Kobe was cool and dim and quiet, and the fading sunlight flared over his hair. Voices were bubbling over the horizon, and he pushed himself off the bridge, prepared to go home. He'd be busy all through the next day.

A group of girls were approaching the bridge, and the sight of them made Reiji smile. They were supposed to be suffragette activists, hair razed short, kimonos hiked at shin-length, no socks (which probably made their feet hurt) and loud-reaching voices and husky laughter. He recognised the one in the middle with ease (a face he'd never forget.) Nami Takagi's hands were in the grasp of another girl's, the latter gushing and the others laughing.

Reiji flattened himself against the bridge and silently let them pass.

* * *

He'd been carrying it around like a badge all day, past supper, into the late evening and night, as he sat with the Takagis around the fire, all saturated with good food, conversing uniformly about the neighbourhood, the world and home politics. He mostly listened, answered when asked, saturated with something few people are lucky enough to have.

_She still called him Hajime_.

Tokio took care to talk to him, her tone light, and they felt Nami's lingering gaze. It was easy to sense that she wasn't impressed by him (Tokio must have talked about him at home), but there was some sort of instinct telling Saito that Nami's dislike was less out of what happened in Kyoto, and more of her "beliefs."

It all passed him by like that, like water sleeking down a duck, and he was hardly aware of it when he was uncoiling himself from the cushy _zabuton _on the floor, retracing Tokio's footsteps as she started to leave the room. She let him follow her all the way into the corridor, and then far enough from earshot, she snapped around, intoning expressionlessly,

"Can I help you, Mr. Hajime?"

He stopped in his tracks. "I was hoping you could show me where I'm to sleep tonight. I have a ... poor memory."

They were both talking in low voices that wouldn't carry through the thin paper walls, but her smile spoke in loud volumes; she nodded.

She'd started to lead the way, when he grabbed her wrist from behind, as he whispered:

"I may come and see you again, mayn't I?"

She turned; her initial annoyance melted into infinite understanding, and she whispered back, "Of course. You shouldn't have to ask."

"You don't know what I feel for you, Tokio, and I don't know how to put it in words." But his face was calm, collected, not at all a distraught lover's, and only his voice — his treacherous voice — gave him away.

"But we're past that, Hajime, we've been past that ever since I left, and let's not go back and make it any harder ... I say this for both of us. _Both_ of us," And the queer emphasis she put on it made them both understand the finality of it all.

"I — understand..." And he really did understand this time, but he couldn't stop the words that escaped from his treacherous throat, aided by his voice, "Tokio — can I hold you? — once last time and never again?"

She came to the circle of his open arms willingly for the second time, resting her head on his shoulder as the weariness suddenly swept her away, and his embrace was protective, protecting and gentle.

His chest was shaking, his whole body was, wracked with hideous pain love shouldn't make one suffer. His arms tightened as her hands went around his midriff, and he suddenly crushed her to him with a python's inhuman strength. He was crying — him! crying! — his head bent, face pressed into the curve of her shoulder.

I love you, he thought wildly. I love you ... Dammit, why are you doing to me what I did to you?


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note**: The real Saito Hajime was a notoriously heavy drinker; in fact, liquor caused the gastric ulcers that ultimately killed him. And I'm sorry I'd done a vanishing act for so long— please just don't hate me _too_ much after this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

He saw the shadows flickering on the rice paper of the shoji, before he heard the low voice calling him. He had been awake for a while now, sitting up on the futon, legs pulled up and back resting against the wall in the room Mrs. Takagi had wrested from Tokio to give to him. It opened into the garden, and the door was opened partially so that he could see the sunlight on the ground and flowers.

"It's all right— you can come in."

"Good morning," said Tokio softly, slipping in. "I remembered you were an early riser."

Saito nodded, trying to smile. Simultaneously, he was bodily shoving the last night out of his mind.

"You should really get your clothes back on," she went on, looking around the room. His luggage was still packed and waiting in a corner near the near-empty bureau; her room was as neat and un-lived-in as always. "That is, if you're going to catch the train to Kyoto today. It's in an hour and half."

Momentarily Saito glanced up — caught the pensive thoughtfulness on her face. He knew then that he would have to leave. "I suppose I have little choice," he conceded. "I'll be roasted by my superiors, if I stay away any longer from work; some policeman _I_ am. Some protector of the country."

"Don't say that," admonished Tokio. "It's my turn to make breakfast; it'll be the leaving feast for a hero." She went over and dragged the back door open wider, to let in the sun and the garden view. "I love this room," she added absently. "And I do hope you'll come back to visit us again…"

His throat choked.

"That's a lousy thing to hope for … most people hope for dreams like gold and riches; they don't waste their hopes on certainties."

* * *

The train rolled to a juddering halt in the station at Kyoto, and stretching his legs as he promptly got up from the uncomfortable slatted wooden seat, Saito silently joined the long file of people making their way out. There was no one (thankfully) waiting for him at the station, and heaving up his bags, he set off for the long walk home. The snow was disappearing all around the city, and lingered on the branches, colouring the trees. 

He stopped once at the post office, to be smiled at by the post mistress and be told there was nothing new for him, except the one he'd received just before leaving Kyoto. He nodded once, not knowing what he had expected, and made a last stop at the nearby tobacco store. The walk home seemed shorter after that, with the feel of a cigarette between his fingers, and the memory he succeeded quite well in pushing to the back of the darkness of his mind.

When he finally reached his house, he was only slightly worn out, more by the prospect of the days to come than the exertion itself. He had only closed the gate behind him—

"Inspector Fujita!"

Saito winced, cursed, and dropped his bags before slowly, deliberately turning around.

A man of no impressive height was leaning over the gate, a sparkle in his eyes, a handkerchief stuffed in one fist; the other hand was waving.

"_You_," growled Saito, barely hiding the sheer gladness of seeing a friendly face like Okita Souji's. "I forgot that you even existed."

"Sure you did," said Okita cheerfully, leaning down to unlatch the gate. "Been gone longer than I thought you'd be, though," he added. "How's Housho?"

Saito looked at him with narrowed eyes. "What does it matter to you?"

"The fellow's in love. With you."

"Hnf. He's doing excellently— better than I would have liked, but there you have it."

"How's Tokio?" asked Okita, jumping the gun. He received a cold look that left him unfazed. He merely arched his eyebrows questioningly, and flashed his most appealing smile. Saito cracked.

He jerked his head at the house, and started back towards it. "In there first."

Once within the privacy of the walls of his own home, and out of earshot of the wind, Saito took his time opening his windows to allow ventilation, and ceremoniously dumped his bags in his room. Okita stared around the drawing room curiously, following him into the kitchen. "_Sake_, please," he said at once, and Saito shot him a funny glance.

* * *

It had been a quick breakfast, gulped down with little time to spare, and with Tokio carrying one of the bags, Saito had hurriedly left the Takagis with a quick farewell, adding to Nami that she should convey his goodbye to Reiji Housho. Her eyebrows had shot up, and her eyes flashed, but Tokio grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out of the house before he and her sister could start enjoying themselves. 

The train had reached the station earlier than expected that cold, crisp morning.

"We'll have to walk," said Tokio decisively, as the two of them emerged into the main road. "No jinrikisha's going to take two of us and rock-heavy luggage all the way to the station at seven in the morning."

So it had been a silent, determined, cross-city dash, weaving their way through crowded streets and loopy alleyway shortcuts that Tokio alone seemed confident of. She was wearing her sister's kimono, hiked up much higher so as to allow her to move more freely. Saito had wisely chosen not to mention his surprise that she was accompanying him.

* * *

"You know," he said suddenly, looking up to catch Okita in the eye, _sake_ jug lifted halfway to his lips. "I just realized— for all of Takagi Nami's declarations, it's really her sister who's the modernist in the family." 

"And the mother?" teased Okita.

Saito barely suppressed the shudder.

* * *

The train was still waiting patiently in the station when they ran in; even Saito was winded, and Tokio reflexively dropped the bag she was holding, gasping for breath. He ducked down and snatched it up again. "Thank you," he said, trying to look up at her, as he clutched his knees, the stitch in his side making it hard to talk. She simply waved him off, not in a better position herself. 

"Excuse me!" she called out to a passer-by, but before the man could ignore her and keep on walking, Saito shot out and collared him, effectually holding him in place, while an embarrassed Tokio hurriedly asked:

"Do you when the next train to Kyoto leaves?"

The man cast a nervous glance sideways at the malevolence Saito was exuding, and snuck a look at the station clock. "In twenty minutes. I-I recommend boarding right now."

Saito released his handhold, the man hurried off. "Well, there you have it."

"Yes," she said with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "With plenty of thanks to you. And with any luck, the people of this town will hopefully recognise me as the woman going around with the demon king."

* * *

"So she went with you as far as the train?" said Okita. "Did she board it?" 

Saito did not reply for a moment, and Okita looked at him. Those tiger-like amber eyes were empty; Hajime had not even heard him.

* * *

Tokio helped him carry a bag, while he carted the other and his wrapped sword, weaving in between the people boarding the train and the orderlies. They squeezed through the aisles awkwardly, hampered by the baggage, until they found Saito's berth. When everything had been deposited, Tokio shot him a smile and made to leave. 

"See you, Hajime— write to me."

"Tokio— can you wait a second?"

She halted, her hand gripping the edge of the berth as she was about to round the corner. It was his voice that arrested her, and it was her hand that snagged his attention: the knuckles had gone white.

"W-what?"

Her teeth pressed into her lip; resolutely she stared up the aisle, towards the door leading out of the carriage, constantly being banged open and closed. Ten — fifteen? — minutes for the train to leave. His voice was not shaking anymore, but her other hand was.

"Come home with me. _Please_."

* * *

_He's persistent_, thought Okita, at last flicking his gaze away from the glazed nothingness of Saito's taut face. _Persistent in self-torture_, _in going about so much in so many wrong ways_. _Wish he was just as persistent in not making the mistakes in the first place_.

* * *

She jerked away from him like she'd been electrocuted. Disbelief in her eyes, no words on her quivering, red lips. 

"H-Hajime—"

Blank, impassive stare meeting hers flatly. Beseeching underneath. She'd seen this before. She'd felt this before. _Not anymore_, she thought passionately. _I want it to stop_.

That was all she could say.

"_Stop_."

The surprise flashed across his face, mingled with hurt that vanished as soon as it appeared.

"_Why_ do you insist on this," she said slowly, "when we _both_ know we are best at _not_ raking up the past? What's over is also what's forgotten, Hajime."

There was no tinged regret in her voice, only coldness. Anger.

He said brusquely, "Then what's wrong with starting again?"

"Nothing. But _this_ is not how I want to restart."

"Then how _do_ you?"

For a minute, she seemed speechless; her eyes swiftly searched his face, looking for what he didn't offer her. For a long moment, she seemed to making her choices. Then she laughed.

It was soft, mirthless, and white-hot with rage.

"You arrogant, selfish _swine_," she whispered. "Do you know, Hajime," she spat out his name, "you may be the only man on earth to _me_, but you aren't the only one there _is_."

She didn't even look back as she swept away from him, surrounded by leaping flames as she tumbled out of the furnace. She simply kept walking, fighting back every urge to turn around, and only when the door to the carriage banged closed, did she stop to catch her breath. She looked out at the station, knowing he was back inside, perhaps sitting on his berth now, one hand on his sword for familiar comfort.

_Still time before the train left_.

Safely, she jumped down from the train, the cold, lonely journey home ahead of her.

* * *

The _sake_ spilled over the rim of the dish, his hand frozen in mid-air. "_Oh_," was all Okita could muster to say, his voice a precarious whisper.

* * *

The dawn clouds cast flickering shadows on the lake Reiji Housho was staring down into, breaking his silent contemplation to turn around and greet Nami Takagi. She stood a little away, chin lifted, staring at him. 

"I ran away," she said.


End file.
